A Letter to My Husband
by VioAlexandru
Summary: Well, they're married. So why isn't it everything wonderful? All human, OOC, mature themes.
1. Chapter 1

**I own nothing but an undying obsession.**

"_Sure thing, marriage is bliss … _

_That's why I'm sitting here, in this empty, estranged apartment, feeling numb and betrayed, hurt and abandoned, writhing beneath the burden of the memories, staring blankly at this white sheet of paper in the lame attempt of writing you a letter… _

_It's been long since you left…so long…too long…"_

A bitter smile twisted my lips, as I pictured myself, an epitome of misery, lying on the couch that had witnessed so many of our embraces, with dried tears on my cheeks, red eyes and a running nose, and I wondered sarcastically who the hell would find me even a bit appealing. I looked down at my clothes: an extra large t-shirt, so old that its color had faded, some sweats and ridiculous plush slippers that seemed glued to my feet… That was how I had been aimlessly wandering through these silent rooms for days now, like a lunatic, seeking his lingering presence in every inert object, sniffing clothes for the remains of his smell, touching absently pieces of furniture… If he were to come through the front door right now, the very sight of me should be enough to make him run like hell.

Pensively, I took hold of an exquisite silver frame beside the couch and I stared at the godlike man in the picture; his beauty was beyond words. I remembered well the day when this picture was taken…a windy, clouded day at the beach last fall. It had been a rather unpleasant weather for a stroll, but he'd convinced me, and we'd had a wonderful time.

Just from looking at his picture he could take my breath away… hand raised through his impossible to discipline hair, large shoulders on which his grey V-neck sweater looked molded, cast in marble chest…and how easily could I recall the rest!… His steel abdomen, his narrow waist, the feline way of walking, his long legs, his gorgeous…everything.

I closed my eyes as an excruciating pain swirled inside me… Like flashes from a stroboscope, behind my eyelids, I could see our naked bodies, making love, I could smell his scent, I could hear his growls and grunts, I could taste him on my lips… The loss of him, his unbearable absence was like the sensation of an open blood vessel, through which my life was slowly draining.

I flew my eyes open only to meet his. Even from the picture, he was teasing me with his mischievous, sexy trademark smile.

"_Ladies and gentlemen…I give you my husband!_" I rasped sourly. My mouth felt parched and my throat was so raw that even the smallest sound stung like a paper cut.

"_The_ _shrewd businessman, the incredible lover, my best friend who always manages to make me laugh…"_

I stroked his features under the glass with my thumb and I smiled cynically at the irony of the genitive. _My_ husband… _My_ man… _Mine_. For as long as we both shall live.

"_You said you would love me until you die/and as far as I know you're still alive, baby..." _I mumbled still holding the picture, still looking at him with wistful eyes, still wanting him until death and beyond. _"Yes, you will be my man in after-life. At least then. 'Cause I've been good, baby, I've been nice…"_

I placed the picture back on the coffee table and rose to my feet. I needed a drink; perhaps it would help diffuse my stinging thoughts, my pain in some amount. I went to the bar and searched for Edward's stock of Glenfiddich, his favorite liquor. One bottle-barely touched. I poured generously in a glass and toasted foolishly in the air. "_For you, my love. A ta sante!"_

I took a gulp, then another, and set the glass on the counter. Only then I felt both the taste and the smell of the drink; the intense memory of him brought not only by my mind, but by two of my senses as well, hit me with the force of a wrecking ball… I wrapped my arms around me as if I were trying to keep myself whole, to prevent my body to cave in on itself, and let myself sank slowly to the floor. Oh, God! How I wished he had not done that! How I wished that were just a nightmare from which I would soon awaken!

I hid my face in my hands and wailed.

Quite a while passed before I was able to return to my letter.

"_I've received a, shall I say interesting? piece of correspondence this week. I leave it here, for you to see and I to be speared of yet another sick impulse of looking at it, again and again. My thoughts are lost among anguish, turmoil and disbelief, and I cannot find any words that aren't constrained or hollow to express properly what I feel. So I'm borrowing them from one of your favorite lady singers. Una delle tue cantanti preferite…_

_I would like to meet her;_

_To know how she's like;_

_Is she fit or not,_

_Is she pretty? I would like;_

_Oh, I would like to see her;_

_To watch her for a while, _

_To learn about her life,_

_Her background and her past._

_Maybe it's bizarre,_

_This curiosity_

_Finally to see, to admit_

_And to imagine no more;_

_Oh, I would like to understand,_

_Even if that breaks me,_

_Since she knew how to get you,_

_Since she took my place._

_I already know her perfume_

_Her handwriting, too-_

_That crumpled soft word_

_Forgotten in our car;_

_I want also to see the hotel,_

_If you paid good for it;_

_If the room was beautiful,_

_And if there was a big bed;_

_It's perhaps not normal,_

_It's insane how that attracts me-_

_This urge for being hurt_

_Oh, 'till the bottom of it, 'till death._

_Oh, I would like to know it all,_

_And her age and her skin,_

_Everything that separates us_

_And makes us alike; That's idiotic!_

_I would like to surprise you with her_

_When you are funny, when you are sweet;_

_To listen to you making her promises,_

_And when you tell her about us;_

_I would also like to see you,_

_To observe you in the mirror,_

_When you are kissing her,_

_Sucking in your stomach, oh matador!_

_I want your body against hers,_

_All those forgotten gestures,_

_I want to discover you again-_

_The one I used to love so much._

_In that cold, in those ashes,_

_I would like staying there,_

_Just to see and understand_

_Everything that I am not. (*)_

I remembered him coming late at night, sometimes disfigured by weariness, sitting on the couch, tie loosened, head leaned back against the cushions, eyes closed, while I prepared his drink in silence. Nothing pretentious, just the scotch. Straight. Edward liked it that way. While he sipped his drink, I usually stood on my knees on the floor, furtively feasting with the sight of him.

My eyes would wander over his profile, taking in every little detail, like a child following with his finger a shadow on the wall: his forehead, his eyelids, his nose, his flawless lips, the planes of his chest concealed by the shirt.

It would still be inexplicable to me, even after all that time, how that gorgeous man could be mine.

In a few moments, he'd be better; jaw relaxed, breathing deep, shoulders yielding. This was my favorite moment of the day and I secretly used to anticipate its arrival, because I knew he would next whisper softly, barely audible, without opening his eyes:

"_Come to me, Bella!_" And I would eagerly climb him, like a drug addict, with an inner smile, straddling his lap, hungry for his kiss. And what a kiss that would be!… Soft, gentle, tender yet deeply erotic, the simple touch of his lips being enough to melt my bones, sufficient to liquefy my brain… He would taste even better, a bit of whisky mingled with his sweet-scented breath, making me thoroughly and utterly dizzy every single time.

"_Living here, all by myself, under the current circumstances and after all the failed attempts to contact you, has become unbearable. I miss you savagely. I have nothing left except this beautiful, violent, desperate thing which is my love for you, and which is constantly burning me, overwhelmingly, suffocating, devastating. I don't know what more to say without the risk of turning this letter into something even more contemptible and pathetic. My scorched soul is stoically waiting for you. It's waiting for you like you were the ultimate remedy, the final shore. Hurry up, my love, so you won't find it some day, when you'll be back, all dried up in expectation, but still standing, facing the horizon…from where you might show up…"_

Against my own advice, I took another look at the photograph that had come by special delivery, in some common manila envelope. It was a black and white image, all blurry and dim, like it had been taken in night vision mode, most probably in a darkened room. I had been carefully studying every angle, every detail since its arrival, trying to no avail to learn more from it. It wasn't of any real necessity to analyze it further; just to close my eyes was more than sufficient. It was already incisively and thoroughly imprinted on my retina.

There were two human bodies depicted there, engaged unquestionably in an extremely passionate act of sexual intercourse; man on top of the woman, his back muscles drawn taut as he was pinning her beneath him, his face deep buried in her neck, her long, elegant legs wrapped around his waist, her fair hair fanned out over the pillow while her head was thrown back in a silent scream of ecstasy.

The photo was simply beautiful. Rather poetical. Or was I biased because that magnificent male body was my husband's? I would have recognized that untamed mane anywhere. Her features were indistinctive, but she had to be at least pretty to match Edward's eerie, unearthly beauty. I expected as much from him, to be picky about his women…especially about the one he was currently cheating me with.

Could I blame her? Wouldn't I be, as well, vulnerable to his charm and as defenseless against his infallible appeal as a fly in a spider's web? Would it have mattered to me he was an attached man? A married man? Had I been her, what would I have done? He was the kind of man who could make a woman lose her head so easily. Make her forget all about herself as he possessed her. Drive her wild with desire. Would I have been able to resist this unbelievable man, torn between guilt and an overwhelming, once-in-a-life-time-kind of passion?

I didn't dare to answer honestly to those questions.

The image of their commingled bodies haunted me as I was trying to fall asleep. I envisioned her fingers trailing across his flawless, smooth chest, threading their way through his messy hair, pulling him closer. I could see oh-so-clearly her lips touching his, hear her breathy moans of pleasure as he claimed her mouth. Him, spreading kisses along her jaw and neck, licking the delicate lobe of her ear, dipping lower to taste her breasts, expertly filling her body with thrills of delight as he pumped himself inside her.

And I could visualize the erotic display of emotions on her face as he made her come.

I lurched up from my pillow, gasping for air, sweat and tears mingling on my face and neck, and futilely hugged myself once more. Every pain - of flesh or soul - gets worse in the night. Mine was no exception.

On impulse, hastily, I reached for my phone on the nightstand and dialed his number. I needed him; I needed him to reassure me, to tell me everything was nothing but a bad dream, a sinister joke of a devious mind. I wanted to be engulfed in his deep voice, to have that way the illusion of his presence.

My last three attempts to speak with him during the day had failed. I couldn't stop myself from hoping it might be different this time. After a couple of rings, a melodious, alto female voice answered:

"_Edward's Cullen phone, Tanya speaking."_

His PA. Again.

"_Hello, this is Bella Cullen. May I speak with my husband, please?"_

"_I'm sorry, Mrs. Cullen, Mr. Cullen's not back from the field yet…"_

"_When is he returning?"_

"_I'm not able to say, there's a situation over there and he is needed…"_

He is deeply needed over here, too…

"_That's what I have been told every time I called. Are you sure you have conveyed my messages?"_ I snapped.

"_Of course I have, Mrs. Cullen!"_ the voice replied, of a sudden rigidly formal.

"_Can you tell him I called, please?"_ I whispered, once more defeated.

"_I most surely will. I'm certain Edward will get back to you the minute he returns."_

'Edward'? What had happened to 'Mr. Cullen?'

"_Hmm…Tanya?"_

"_Yes, Mrs. Cullen."_

"_What's your hair color?"_

"_I'm blonde," _she answered after a slight hesitation. "_Why are you asking?"_

"_It's nothing, really. I was just wondering. I'm sure it's very pretty, Tanya. Thank you. Good night."_

"_Good night, Mrs. Cullen!"_

I was quite sure she'd been smiling while uttering her good-bye words. A polite, business-friendly smile meant to be sensed by the unseen interlocutor or was it a little victorious one?

With all my strength I threw the phone against the bedroom wall in a pathetic effort of gaining some revenge. It was, after all, a gift from Edward. All useless now, scattered all over the floor in tiny pieces. All useless before its destruction, as well.

I should leave. I should be leaving right now. To avoid the humiliation of his return, the embarrassment, the ridicule, not to face the urge of throwing in his face all my venom, all my bitter reproaches by screaming, begging, imploring in some striving, disgusting, hysterical, profoundly feminine manner.

I refused to project in my mind grotesque revenges or ingenious traps to regain him, or reconciliation scenarios, in which he'd be just a superb beast and I, a helpless thrall forever enslaved by his male perfection.

I would not demand eternity from him, solemn gestures and promises, final commitments; I would not blackmail him with my tears and despair; I would not become a clingy, encumbering ballast, looking up at him in hopeless adoration, only to discover him crushing like a giant god, estranged, indifferent, far-off.

No. I wouldn't do any of that.

Was I so easily surrendering? Was I so weak, defeated so soon, already willing to give him up? Maybe I should fight instead, fight for him with this beautiful yet faceless woman with everything I had.

But even if I did that, Edward still would not want me. It was as simple as that, yet inexorable nevertheless. _"Too proud to beg/ Too dumb to steal"._ Yeah, that would _definitely_ be me. So why impose myself on him?

**Thank you for reading.**

_(*) Approximate translation of Patricia Kaas' song, "__Je Voudrais La Connaître"_

_Other quoted songs:__"Illegal" - Shakira, "It's Probably Me"- Sting feat. Eric Clapton_


	2. Chapter 2

**I own nothing but an exhausting obsession.**

I stayed up for the rest of the night preparing my precipitate departure. My decision having been made, some of my burden fell off my shoulders and I felt more at ease. After days of morose moping and nights of smoldering sorrow, I could almost breathe again. I now had a purpose, something to focus upon, something to prevent me from losing my worried mind. I only needed to figure out the 'where' and the 'when'… and I had every intention to ignore the 'whys'. I didn't allow myself to question my reasons, I knew it was cowardly and stupid of me to run away like this, but for the moment, it felt right. I couldn't bear to spend another undetermined period of time surrounded by silent witnesses of my lost happiness, vainly waiting for something, anything to happen, waiting for _him_ to return. As if something good could come out of it.

Every now and then, my thoughts returned to the unbelievable, absurd situation I was into, but I tried to my best to divert them. So I cleaned the bathroom, I discarded the remains of my phone, I dusted everything, I scrubbed thoroughly every kitchen cupboard until the morning finally came. It wasn't really necessary since I had been living on my own like a ghost for quite some time, and since there was someone paid for doing household chores, but it kept me preoccupied and helped me through the night.

On numerous occasions, my longtime friend Angela had invited me to visit her and her daughter in Europe. She was now living in Sweden, as consequence to an ugly divorce and a bellicose ex-husband. She had finally found her peace of mind there, since she was speaking so warmly about her adoptive country.

So I emailed Angela, announcing my intention to visit her at her earliest convenience, because I was suddenly available because of one of my husband's prolonged business trips. I kept a light tone, trying not to let my real mood surface between the lines. I hoped for a prompt reply.

I began to pack a bag after that, with a few essentials…some practical clothes I should feel comfortable in, some toiletries…That scarcely filled a suitcase. There aren't many things that money cannot buy in almost any place of the Earth, so why bother with heavy, useless luggage? I did have some savings of my own, enough to ensure a reasonable living for a few months. Ok, maybe the more appropriate word was 'modest, but that wouldn't be a problem for me; I used to shy away from the luxury so easily affordable thanks to Edward's wealth anyway, because it made me feel uneasy and sometimes, frivolous. I was leaving, after all, on my own personal pilgrimage, to rediscover my identity, my true self. On such a journey, money should be the last concern.

"_Yeah, right…"_ I snorted to myself. "_So now you're a pilgrim... how far does your delusion go? You're a limited, stay-at-home wife whose days are filled with the meaningful task of waiting for her husband to come home and fulfilling his every need. Apparently, you aren't that good either, since he is now so obviously seeking satisfaction elsewhere. You threw away your life's potential for any significance! And running away at first signs of marital crisis, with tail between your legs, won't get you anywhere…_"

A sudden wave of nausea hit me. Those mean words swirling in my head like the mockery of a mad clown made me physically sick. I ran to the bathroom and threw up. Although I hadn't been properly eating in days, I still threw up. My hands grew colder, clenched on the edge of the toilet bowl, while my repulsive gasps echoed in the tiled, steel-cold room. It was painful, acridly, and it hurt both my throat and stomach. I remained on my knees, metaphorically embracing my misery, my new status until I began to shiver. After I regained some composure, I stood up on shaking legs, washed my face and rinsed my bitter mouth. Unwillingly, I faced myself in the mirror.

None of my inner chatter was true. Alright, I wasn't exotic, sophisticated or even beautiful enough for Edward, but I _was_ a good wife. I offered him my entire being. I made his house a home; I could see his tired face slowly growing serene, peaceful and comforted every night when he returned from work. That expression in itself was worthwhile. And I had the ambition or the necessary education to make anything else of myself, but I solely wanted to be his wife. To devote myself to him, to love him, obey him and honor him in the best ways I could. It was a full-time job, anticipating his desires, his necessities, encouraging him, being supportive, optimistic and cheerful. That was my role as his wife, to make him happy. I was his partner, his friend, his shoulder to cry on… I was his lover… I tried to be his everything, as he was for me.

Obviously, I had failed.

I stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror for the longest time. I looked like hell - pale, with dark circles under my eyes, exhausted by lack of sleep, with uncombed, dropping-wet strands of hair. I looked like a stray and my self-esteem was in shreds. In assumed diffidence, I lowered my head, my hair hiding my face like a curtain of shame. I stared at the perfect polished sink faucet instead, taking in every little detail. I had missed a spot.

The silence surrounding me, the lifeless objects became menacing; that familiar, but suddenly hostile environment seemed to my disordered reason more and more terrifying. It was like a horror movie cliché when the walls are beginning to slide inward like a trap, to squash inside the intruder. Once more, I felt the urge to flee.

Dragging my feet, I returned to the bedroom and zipped closed my bag. After a few hesitations, I furtively added on top Edward's silver framed photo. It felt like stealing it, but I wouldn't give it another thought. I was tired of analyzing my actions. I halfheartedly checked my inbox next, only to find to my surprise that Angela had already answered, replying enthusiastically that I was welcome to come as soon as I could. The first available Seattle – Stockholm flight was the following evening, but I would have to change planes in Paris. That shouldn't be too bad, now, should it? What better place to be alone and heartbroken than the classic city of romance?

I booked and paid for my ticket and sent Angela my flight details. I now had ahead of me thirty-six hours of impatient waiting and a restless mind. I ogled intently the whisky bottle…

The guy next to me kept annoying the flight attendant with inane questions and he made me very nervous. A ridiculous-looking bright yellow cap hid his eyes, and his entire body emanated some evil vibes; or it was maybe just my imagination. I did have a vivid imagination lately.

I put as much distance as I could between us and tightened the grip on the blanket clutched in my lap. I closed my eyes, tuning out the surrounding sounds and focusing on breathing deeply. After a while, on their own volition, my thoughts returned to Edward.

I pictured him in Rio, strolling on the streets of that sultry, agglomerated city, in casual summer clothes, perhaps in a white linen shirt and light, loose-fitting pants, relaxed and wearing a tan, laughing, enjoying a drink and holding hands with his mysterious mistress… Yeah, a walk on a balmy moonlit night was perfect for seductive conversation and learning about each other, the hot summer breeze in the air mirroring the simmering passion in their veins.

I mentally winced but stubbornly continued my mental projection. Bits of images, almost documentary-like, so clear and detailed… his jaw movements during their kiss, his elegant, long-fingered hand trailing her back, cupping her breast, his thumb stroking her lower lip… It was insane and masochistic, but I couldn't help it. With a barely audible sigh, I made the effort to change the course of my wandering thoughts. Lingering on that sort of mental images wouldn't do me any good, and restoring some of my mental sanity was, after all, the whole purpose of this travel.

Leaving our apartment was heart breaking and liberating at the same time. I spent my remaining hours thinking whether I should announce Edward's family about my departure, and finally decided against it. This was between him and me and I couldn't let my distress and my suffering interfere with the relations with his family. I also knew that this was yet another cowardly gesture of mine, but I didn't trust myself to have a normal conversation with Esme or Alice, without revealing any of my real state of mind. I could pretend of course, that I was leaving to Europe for an actual visit to a friend, that being basically the truth, but either of them would have sensed that something was terribly wrong with me as soon as they would have picked-up the phone. I could have bet my life on it.

Only imagining Esme's tender voice on the other end of the line was enough to bring tears in my eyes. After the first spoken words, I most surely would begin to cry, sobs choking my muffled attempts of speaking, Esme would panic and everything would turn into a greater mess than it already was. As a result, more people would be involved in my pathetic, old-as-time melodrama, caring, innocent people, who were nothing but wonderful to me, accepting me and loving me unconditionally.

As far as my parents were concerned, things were easier. I left both my mother and Charlie messages, carefully calculating the time frame when Charlie would be at work, and mom, most probably, shopping so there weren't any surprises there. In a controlled, neutral voice, I told them I would be away for a couple of weeks, visiting Angela in Europe, and I would get back to them as soon as I would be settled.

That left me with only Edward to deal with… Which way was the best to let him now about my intentions? I quickly considered my options and finally returned to my unfinished letter on the coffee table. I didn't have the guts to read it again, so I only added down on the last page, with shaking hand, one final paragraph.

"_As you have probably already imagined, I'm leaving for a while. I need some space to clear my mind, to figure out what to do next, to…assess myself. I'm at this point far too emotional, confused and lost and maybe some unfamiliar environment will give me a different perspective. I'm sure you also need some time alone…by yourself."_

My smile was especially bitter as I wrote down that sentence.

"_Bellow, you'll find the address and the phone number of where I'll be staying, in case you need to get in touch with me, or whish to send me...legal documents. _

_I'm unable to choose the appropriate words to say good-bye to you. I love you, Edward. I always will._

_B. "_

I placed the infamous photo under my handwritten pages and headed for the door. My ridiculously small suitcase was already in the hallway. I grabbed it, along with my backpack but waveringly stopped to take one final look at what used to be my home. I had carefully left everything in order, pristine, pharmaceutical – clean and neat so it wouldn't be hard for him to get rid of any remnants of my presence here. The result was a cold, frozen, impersonal scenery; this was not my home anymore. This had become my prison. I wanted this over.

And here I was, on the plane to Sweden, near some suspicious looking guy wearing an ugly cap, with vague expectations from myself, unsure of my life to be, scared and inhibited. What was I to do next? What was the plan?

I tried to build a façade for Angela, it was not her fault that I had chosen her as my runaway destination and it would be unfair to receive as a guest a human wreck. I'd used the stop in Paris to buy gifts for her and her daughter, and also to improve my looks in the airport bathroom. I could spend a few dollars on a lipstick now, couldn't I? It was, after all, for a noble cause, not to scare the shit out of my friend when she would lay her eyes on me.

I intended to stay with Angela for as long as it was politely possible, then I would search for something unpretentious to rent and take it one day at a time. It wasn't much of a plan, but it was as good as it could be under the given conditions.

I tried to get a little rest, since it had been so far a long, overnight flight. I was afraid to do so though, as I might dream and speak in my sleep. I dreaded the prospect of drawing attention to myself, but I was drained of energy. I followed with my eyes the tedious pattern on the chair's fabric in front of me until my lids stayed open no more and I fell into exhausted slumber.

In what seemed like only minutes later, I felt a light grip on my arm.

"Miss, miss, wake up!"

I flinched under the alien touch and my eyes opened on a very tall, lovely blonde woman, wearing the air company's uniform and a toothpaste-commercial-like smile, obviously a stewardess, who was giving me a worried look.

"Are you okay, miss? You were screaming in your sleep and that startled the other passengers…" she whispered secretively, plastic smile safely in its place.

"Yes, I am now, thank you. I must have had a bad dream, but I'm fine. I'll stay awake, I promise… Sorry for that…" I mumbled embarrassed.

She nodded understandingly and flashed her obnoxiously bright teeth once more, then turned around and advanced further on the aisle. I felt suddenly extremely angry with myself for my unjustified submissive reaction and also furious at her for… I didn't know what for… for her thin body maybe, or for her glamorous hairdo. I bit my tongue not to yell at her stiff back at the top of my lungs: "Smile like you mean it, you fake, cheap blonde!" I hugged tighter my blanket instead, like it were some magic shield, and looked on the tiny window, at the blackest night I had ever seen.

It took me just seconds to realize that I was, in fact, angry at my competitor, the enigmatic, super-powered woman that had stolen my husband and consequently, I was projecting all my resentment and hatred on every fair-haired lady I had contact with. I was as predictable as mushrooms after rain.

"_Smart decision, Bella! You are on your way to a Nordic European country, full of Viking descendants. You'll get your fair share of blond people, now, won't you?" _I ironically criticized myself.

I sighed profoundly as I thought that things weren't getting any easier.

"Rough night, huh?"

I turned my head and met an askew little smile from my yellow-capped neighbor. His eyes were still hidden, but I felt a slight tinge of sympathy for this strange man and his unexpected attempt of having a friendly conversation.

"Yeah… I cannot even remember what the dream was about… Sorry if I woke you…" I replied quietly then continued to stare at the window. I didn't feel like chatting.

I abruptly remembered I had with me a leather-covered notebook, all new and good smelling and, since I was forbidden to sleep, I might as well do something useful with my time. I was going to 'psychoanalyze' myself by keeping a journal of this enlighten experience. _"Another contemptible action of yours," _the sarcastic voice in my head started, "…_keeping a diary at your age… Perhaps you should also write down your memoirs, since we're here…"_ but excited with the idea, I was determined to ignore it. So I pulled out the notebook and began frenziedly writing in that poor light, completely engrossed and oblivious to the rest. I kept doing it, until we were told to prepare for landing.

Out, in the crowded, much too shiny airport, among the mass of unknown faces, I felt lost again. After I claimed my luggage, I anxiously headed for the exit where a slender woman with black hair falling to her waist was waiting for me. We shared a silent, tight, enthusiastic embrace then she stepped back and from arm's-length distance, took her time measuring me. Finally, she put her arm around my shoulders and squeezed me protectively.

"Come… Let's take you home…" she said softly.

**Thank you for reading.**


	3. Chapter 3

**I own nothing but a disturbing obsession.**

We both stayed relatively quiet during the short drive to Angela's home. I was for a minute afraid I might have to talk endlessly, to express myself, to describe who I was, who I'd become, as it is often required when two friends, who were once close, meet again. I didn't have the necessary mood; I felt too tired, physically and mentally, to fill the inside of that small car with goofy exclamations, light banter and girly chatter. I feared those awkward silent moments, when you remain all of a sudden out of neutral subjects of conversation and don't know if it's appropriate to approach more intimate matters or to keep it safe on the more formal side.

It was the same prospect that made me feel bored and annoyed in advance from only considering attending high school or college reunions or any other similar gatherings. I hated everything: the forced laughter, the hypocritical praising, the unavoidable sting of envy, the furtive weighing of other people's social position, conjugal happiness, financial success, criteria that were, in themselves, frivolous and hallow. The harder the display, the deeper the charade.

But I'd forgotten it was Angela I was thinking about, who'd always been discreet, private and tactful. It had been easy to be myself near her in the past and apparently, that was the case now as well, because she had yet to pounce upon me with an avalanche of insistent questions. She'd been so far paying attention to the road, driving slowly and explaining to me that the fines were so big in that country and the social disapproval so powerful, that reckless driving was of rare occurrence. Nobody was in a hurry there, and in fact, that observation on traffic behavior could be extrapolated over grater, more abstract situations. As a general rule, any problem had its solution as long as you were patient. I wondered briefly if there was a hidden message for me in her last remark.

I slowly began to relax, and felt no longer rude by being silent. I furtively examined her and asked myself how in the world had she managed to build from scratch a new life for her and her daughter, in an unfamiliar culture, surpassing the language barrier, the fears and the isolation? "_She must have been so vulnerable and traumatized then and, at the same time, so strong and determined!"_ I thought admiringly. Perhaps this is the kind of strength simultaneously given with the responsibility of raising a child. If she succeeded, maybe I could too_…_

"_Except for the fact that Angela had her daughter to be strong for, my dear…You have nothing." _The scoffing voice had returned and I felt my sternum burning again with the familiar pain. It was true, though. Indeed, I had nothing. After years of marriage, I'd left carrying nothing but a treasure chest full of emotions and memories.

Was I, at least, a better person now? Did I grow, did I evolve as a human being? I doubtfully shook my head while staring blindly at the road ahead. This wasn't a good moment for either advancing theories or asking rhetorical questions. I should concentrate on being a pleasant guest, because I couldn't embarrass Angela even more. However, she caught my gesture and asked with a smile:

"What is it?"

"Nothing."

"You looked like you were having a dialogue with yourself," she insisted.

"Actually, I'm amazed by you. I can only guess how difficult must have been for you to come here and I don't know…reinvent yourself?"

"I'd hardly done that!" she said laughing. "I'm the same person I used to be, Bella… Older maybe, wiser, but still the same."

I remained ostentatiously silent.

"Okay. It wasn't always easy," she admitted with a soft sigh; however, the glance she gave me was bright and sparkly. "But I feel just fine, now. I've reached a point where I'm content and comfortable with my current condition here. I feel accepted, I've acclimatized, if I may say so, and I've freed myself from the discomfort, the worries and the problems attached to my past."

"You look well, too." I observed simply.

Soon enough, we reached our destination. She lived 12 miles away from Stockholm, in a small town spread out on an island and surrounded by a large number of similar islands, forming together an archipelago. Angela had said that the region was more easily accessible by water than by land and that it was one of the most exclusive areas for vacation houses in Sweden. Surprisingly though, because it didn't strike me as luxurious; what's more, it didn't even seem appropriate to call that settlement a 'town', since it was rather a large village, everything about it having a rural appearance.

We entered her two-bedroom apartment and she radiantly showed me around. It was incredibly bright and airy, of a simple elegance, whites, creams and light blues in pale shades being used on almost any surface. The resulting effect was one of instant peace and tranquility.

I was truly amazed, much to my host's delight. The Swedes, Angela proudly told me, like their nearby neighbors in Norway, have long been known for a rather unique decoration style characterized by simplicity. The dark winters and early nights of Sweden were seemingly the cause for their preferences to light colors, bright lighting and unfinished woods.

However, her bedroom was the one that really left my mouth hanging open. It held nothing but a large, square, white bed. The white walls and the bed. Nothing else. It was stark, austere and bereft of color.

"Your bedroom looks like a place of perpetual penitence…" I observed in a small voice.

"Yeah… This room isn't quite finished. We moved here only a few months ago. This is where you'll be sleeping, though. I hope it's alright…" Angela said, watching me with a worried expression.

"Of course it is, Angela! I was just taken by surprise, it seems so… I don't know…monastic?"

Angela started to laugh and lively added: "I have no intention of turning myself into a nun, Bella! I like men too much!"

She finished giving me the tour then helped carrying my substantial luggage into my new room.

"Bella, I must return to work. I'm sorry for leaving you like that, but I'll take tomorrow and the day after tomorrow off, so I can accommodate you better, and hopefully, after the following weekend, you'll be able to manage by yourself. I should have warned you about my tight schedule and I'm afraid you'll be alone most of the time. But don't worry, sweetheart, there's plenty you can do, there are museums, places to visit, lots of sightseeing, Stockholm is so near... Everybody speaks English here, and they're more than happy to use any chance they get to show it. You should try to get some rest. You must be tired after your flight.

Tonight, my daughter and I are going to make you a Swedish dinner and we'll catch up. It will be fun, I promise!"

She gave me a quick kiss on the cheek and rushed off in a hurry, without leaving me the chance of saying something in return. She sounded almost embarrassed and seemed a little eager to get out. Yet again, maybe it was only my imagination. I wondered how difficult it was in fact for her to adjust to my sudden presence here, disrupting her daily routine and bringing back memories from home. I felt on a sudden selfish and guilty.

Angela yelled from the door that she'd left something for me to eat in the kitchen, and then I heard the front door closing. I had remained alone in her house. I paced the silent rooms and for a brief moment, I feared I might get anew that imprisonment sensation I'd had back at home; but all I was feeling was exhaustion and numbness.

I pulled out from my bag the books bought from Paris as gifts and left them on a table for the girls to find. I returned to my new Spartan bedroom, and without another thought, I lay down on the bed fully clothed and went fast asleep.

I didn't realize it was already the next morning until, barely awake, I bumped into Angela on my way to the bathroom.

"Good morning, sleepy-head! Come on, I've made coffee!" she said tenderly.

"What time is it?" I asked, confused.

"It's nine o'clock in the morning. You slept almost sixteen hours!" she clarified, smiling. I was surprised. I hadn't slept so much and so dreamlessly in quite some time.

"I'll be right with you. Just let me get rid of these clothes and take a shower."

We spend enjoyably the rest of the day: talking, preparing meals and taking a walk down memory lane. We discussed my family, her family, our mutual acquaintances and former colleagues. At some point, her daughter came from school, and to my astonishment, I was introduced to an almost teenage girl, who, after polite greetings, paid us unsurprisingly little attention and went to her room. Angela shrugged and smiled meaningfully. When the evening came, we even made fools of ourselves, trying to sing old Abba hits over a glass of red wine.

"So, are you ready to tell me why you are really here?" she cautiously asked while handing my refilled glass.

My heart stopped and for a second I hesitated, in search for suitable words.

"I think…I mean… Edward seems to be interested… in another woman…so...I kind of…fled..." With each word, my voice dropped until it remained just a feeble whisper.

"Oh, Bella… Are you sure?"

"I have strong reasons to believe that…"

"It's okay, dear, there's no need for you to tell me more. I didn't mean to be indiscreet."

"I want to tell you. I owe you that much. Besides, I haven't really spoken to anybody about this."

"_If you don't count in my pitiable letter,_" I thought dryly.

"Have you talked to him, I mean… what did he say?" she asked, stretching to get a hold of my hand.

"We didn't exactly talk about it. We haven't seen much of each other lately. He's in Rio right now and I couldn't reach him… He has traveled extensively there in the last year."

For a minute, there was silence.

"So what do you intend to do?"

"Once a man starts lusting after 'fresher flesh', there's not much you can do. I'll acquiesce in whatever he wants, I guess…"

"You seemed to be so much in love with him. Aren't you going to defend your marriage?"

"I really don't know if I should, Angela…"

I rose to my feet and paced to the window.

"It was nice to think that he and I would be together forever...but forever is a long time, things happen, life is just one damn thing after another and no relationship comes with a lifetime guarantee... Maybe the weight of managing a life filled to the brim with obligations, plans, regrets and fears has taken its toll on him..." I inhaled deeply and added quietly: "It never made sense anyway...him to be mine, I mean…"

"That's a silly thing to say Bella, and you know it! You make it sound like he is a demigod or something…"

I turned my back on her and stared blankly outside, seeing only my own reflection in the dark window.

"You clearly haven't met Edward…" I chuckled tersely.

"I don't need to…I mean, look at you! You're an articulate, intelligent, good looking, considerate and highly educated woman…"

"No, I'm not!" I retorted almost shouting, my voice high-pitched and strained. "I'm... I'm timid and mediocre and irresolute…" I stopped abruptly, remembering we were not alone in the apartment and stared ashamed at the glass in my hand.

"You mustn't say that!" Angela admonished me, unimpressed by my childish burst.

"I'm sorry." I whispered. "_In more ways than one_…" I added in my mind.

"No, I mean it! Bella, you're almost thirty now, aren't you?" I nodded.

"Well, the general opinion is that this is the age when a woman grows confident in herself and by now she knows what she enjoys, what she dislikes, what she deserves… There's absolutely no reason for you to develop such a poor self-image and suffer from it. I'm not saying to blow your own trumpet, but you need to trust yourself and to be more selfish. You need to love yourself. I'm sure you already know all of this, but you shouldn't underestimate yourself, under any circumstances; and for no one!"

"Are you telling me I should take measures, I should act instead of hiding here and licking my wounds, aren't you? What am I to do, Angela? Track the other woman down and give her a good, hard, humiliating slap in public then grab Edward by his sleeve and drag him home kicking and screaming? Like that would truly prevent my marriage from falling apart…" I snorted sourly.

"Being confident is not about being dominant or aggressive or always getting what you want, Bella… It's about knowing who you are and not compromising on the important matters. Look, I understand your frustration and disappointment and pain and I'm not going to give you a lecture based on my personal experience. I know you need empathy right now rather than a solution…but you are resourceful and creative and surely you must know that the solution lies within yourself."

I skeptically shrugged and remained quiet. She was right. But so was I. My mind began a wandering of its own, analyzing the pros and cons of each case.

"…finish our glasses and go to bed?" Lost in thoughts, I only caught the ending of Angela's question.

"Yes. I cannot believe how late it is already… I think I should let you know something… I am known as having a restless and noisy sleep." I confessed uneasily.

"Come on, Bella! I'm sure I've seen worse. You wouldn't believe what an ex boyfriend of mine used to do in his sleep..."

We left the living room whispering and giggling like school girls. It had been a good day.

Our weekend together went by fast and soon I was, as I had been warned, mostly alone during the day. I watched Angela's daily struggle in awe. She ran back and forth in her old, battered red car, dividing herself between two jobs, psychology courses, her daughter's piano and ballet lessons, groceries shopping, cooking and cleaning, while her long, black-as-pitch hair in that ocean of blond heads made her look striking, exotic, almost alien-like. She ran all day long, from early morning until midnight, in some frantic race against the clock and maybe, just maybe, against her own fears.

Still, she found the time to take care of herself, to read, to talk to her friends, to handle the 'cattish affairs' as she liked to call the personal care routine. The fact that she was a kindergarten teacher for little Swedes, speaking their impossible language and in addition taught English as a second job also genuinely amazed me. She was a superwoman.

However, at night, she still had to face her big bed by herself. At least at the moment it was occupied by me. I wondered for a split second whose condition was more deplorable: hers or mine. Her loneliness or my misery.

I supposed it was a moot point.

Observing Angela kept me from sinking too deep in my own dangerous quicksand, in my treacherous wretchedness. I feared the nights, though. Lately I'd been spared from nightmares but I was afraid they might reappear, which wouldn't surprise me at all. I used to have this recurrent dream, in which I'd meet Edward in some dark, indistinct scenery, a shadowy street corner perhaps, the only clear detail being the medieval-looking, cobblestone road, glittering wet from the rain.

For a while, we would only look at one another in the twilight. In the early evening gloom he'd seem taller yet. Colder than he had ever been. Then he'd turn to leave, still and silent, his face hardened, leaving me unable to utter my despair; although I would try to outcry my grief, to retain him, to make him return, not a single sound would leave my lips. Even if I mouthed his name over and over until I could hear it thundering in _my_ head, there would still be nothing but an odd, deafening silence.

As if sensing my muted screams, he would pause for a little while, half-turning to look at me. Then he'd be gone, his shape slowly fading in the deepening dusk and his strange metallic footsteps echoing in the dark.

I woke up sobbing in a blend of fear and confusion, feeling Angela's comforting arms around me. She must have heard me from her daughter's bedroom, which they were currently sharing. Her soft, silky nightgown I felt against my cheek was all wet from my tears.

My pain, reborn and reinforced, hit me stronger than ever.

"I cannot evade him, Angela…" I cried. "He's inside me, running in my veins, blended in my blood, like an indelible imprint on my entire being… He owns me, he haunts me whenever he likes…"

"I know, Bella, I know…" She hugged me tighter and tried to soothe me with her words and touch. "Calm down now… It was only a dream. Everything is going to be okay. Time is a great healer, sweetheart. You'll see… The best is yet to come."

**Thank you kindly for reading this ludicrous story.**

_An inspiring song: "Elle a fait un bebe toute seule" - Jean-Jacques Goldman_


	4. Chapter 4

**I own nothing but an insane obsession.**

"That's one weird looking postman!" I noticed one day, spying from behind the curtain on a tall, scraggy man carrying a mail sack; he climbed in a very small, yellow car, which looked like an Eastern European relic from the Cold War period. "With that torn, old raincoat of his, he makes me think of Charles Bukowski and his 'Post Office'..."

"I must admit, he frightens me a little," Angela confessed, stepping beside me by the window and sneaking a peek herself. "For the past month we've had him as a postman," she continued in almost a whisper, "…and ever since he took our route, my mail has been shoved through the door in such a manner that quite often the envelopes end up torn or dog-eared.

One day I remained home being sick and I ran into him at the door. I politely asked him to stop folding my letters because it had made my daughter sad to receive ruined birthday cards. Out of nowhere, he started to shout at me, saying I should get a real mailbox. I pointed out calmly that the previous mail carrier had no issues with my mail slot and I was not well enough to be standing there arguing with him. Then he grabbed a handful of envelopes from his leather pouch and started to shove those letters that were not even addressed to me through the door. "_Look, look, they don't fit!_" he kept on saying. I said to him: "_Listen, I'm not feeling well, I can't do this right now_... " He threw my mail on the floor, grabbed the foreign letters back and put them in his bag and strode off, glancing back over his shoulder and sneering: '_You should get some rest_, _love_…'"

"That sounds pretty scary, Angela…So, how has he been acting since?"

"Even worse, I think. He sometimes shows up at strange, inappropriate hours for mail delivery, like 10 o'clock in the night and the sound of mail being pushed through the door startles me every time. I have this chilly envision of his disgustingly hairy fingers slipping through my mail slot..."

"That _is_ alarming. Aren't you going to do something about this unusual harassment?"

"I've asked around. Apparently, our regular mail carrier will be returning soon. There's no need to make a big deal out of it. If he continues to show up here afterwards…well, that is an entirely different story."

Quite predictably, I soon began to wait with interest the spooky postman's visits. Two weeks had passed and still no sign from Edward. Of course, that meant nothing, since I didn't know if he had even returned from Brazil. My cell phone having been turned into pieces, I'd left him Angela's number, but still no call. Nothing in the mail either…

I tried to smother it though, the tiny, flickering hope that was sneakily warming my heart; each day that went by without receiving mail was only adding to the difficulty of controlling it. I despised my hope. I was not entitled to feel it. It was a dangerous, two-faced emotion, which would only enhance the vertiginous, soon-to-come falling into despair. Nevertheless, I couldn't help it…maybe no news was good news, after all. The ball was now in his court and it was hard to predict what his next move would be.

It was definitely fall in Southern Scandinavia… I began taking long, solitary walks, especially early in the morning, slowly getting acquainted with the strangely beautiful surroundings of that tranquil village-town, surreptitiously lying within a beautiful mosaic of inland lakes and offshore islands. I deeply enjoyed the peaceful views of that fantastic archipelago, the wild expanse of sick green sea, the dark, undisturbed, endless forests and the crazy autumn foliage. There were extensive mires and swampy land, as well as lakes and waterways that gave the region an untamed feeling.

However, besides its magnificent, unspoiled beauty, this surprising country had more wonders yet to be discovered by unenlightened tourists as myself. According to Angela, Northern Sweden – one of the vastest, most dramatic and spectacular wilderness areas Europe had to offer - was blessed with that peculiar, world-famous light phenomenon known as 'midnight sun', which meant that the sun did not set at all during the summer months. I could only imagine what an endless day would look like, the perpetual sunlight covering everything with an utterly surreal, magical brightness. I wished I were able to see for myself such an unbelievable, singular spectacle.

I liked strolling along the narrow country roads, smelling the resin from the pines, randomly exploring the paths lying between bushes of wild roses and tall, mysterious ferns. I would walk past wooden, reddish-brown little cottages with colored fences, discreetly half-hidden in their dark green veil of trees and I soon started to believe that people here cared more than the average American about the nature, because of their intimate but most unostentatious relation to it.

I developed a route of my own, ending with a moss-covered boulder, where I would sit, looking how, in the distance, the trees and the fence posts were slowly swallowed by fog, taking notes of my random thoughts, feeling sometimes nostalgic and sometimes violently longing for my childhood home, back in Forks.

It was on one of those chill and misty mornings when I heard from behind a warm, pleasant voice, speaking to me:

"You seem to really like it here…" I turned slowly to discover the voice belonged to a young man who stared at me smiling.

"I'm sorry… Did I startle you?"

"Actually, no, you didn't…" I said in response. I didn't know why but I felt a sudden strong impulse to smile back at him. "Surprisingly, though, I'm known to be a little jumpy…"

"So, am I right?"

"About what?"

"About you enjoying this view? I have noticed you coming here a lot."

"Yeah…" I said, turning my head and watching the silent waves for a second. "Yes. I like it here…" I uttered very softly. "I'm sorry… I didn't catch your name…"

"That's because I didn't say it…" he answered, beaming widely. "My name is Jake. Jacob Black, in fact."

"I'm Bella…Swan." I almost whispered my maiden name. I lowered my eyes in shame but next shook my head as if trying to escape some nagging insect and focused back on my unexpected interlocutor. I gazed silently at the sight of that broad-shouldered, muscular man. He was young, in his early twenties maybe, with a dark-reddish skin and chiseled features. Although he had this impressive figure, I felt nothing frightening coming from him, thanks to that wide, honest grin he kept on flashing. At some point, I realized I was staring in awe at his very long, thick, raven black hair.

"Your hair is amazing!" I blurted out on impulse. I quickly covered my lips with my frozen fingers, in some stupid, tardive attempt of stopping the words from leaving my mouth.

"Really?" he exclaimed incredulously. "Thanks…but is no merit of mine. Yours is not bad either…" he added smiling openly. "Only that it's damp from all this rawness in the air. You should have worn you hood or at least a heavier coat. You must be freezing! Can I offer you a cup of tea and a piece of Swedish Tea Ring? I live nearby… just around that huge pine," he said, pointing the direction with his raised arm. "And there's no need to worry; my landlords and I are living in the same house, so you won't be alone with me."

I measured him again, considering his invitation. I didn't know him. He could be dangerous. But he seemed genuine, sincere and most of all, his smile was utterly contagious. I nodded and stood up, grabbing the jacket I had been sitting on and my notebook.

"That's how you were able to see me coming here, huh?" I sheepishly asked. "Because you don't look like the stalker type…"

His following torrent of laughter echoed along that sad, silent beach and alarmed the birds in the surrounding trees.

"Have you ever seen a stalker with such mind-blowing hair as mine? I cannot stalk anybody…I'm too busy shampooing my locks…then applying conditioner… not to mention brushing it…" he added between other intermittent bursts of laughter. "You wouldn't believe how hard that work is," he added, theatrically rolling his eyes and wiping imaginary sweat from his forehead.

"Stop it!" I lightheartedly cautioned him, smiling in my turn.

"You know that treatment with olive oil and egg yolk?" he continued unabashed. "It does wonders, especially with the pollution nowadays…"

"Come on! I got it! It was an improper remark, I take it back!" I said, punching him playfully in the shoulder.

"You should try it. I'm serious." He ended his teasing and put his hands in his pockets. Next, he asked me shrugging. "So what are you? Some kind of a writer?" I watched him point with his chin at the notebook in my hand.

"No…I wish I were, though…" I drawled.

"What are you doing here then?"

"I'm visiting an old friend of mine… How about you?" I quickly diverted the course of his questions. "How do you fit in this magical, supernatural kingdom?"

"I'm a student in Stockholm," he answered very naturally, offering me his arm.

"Is that so? What have you been studying so far? The Ancient Viking Art of War?" I asked, indicating his large shoulders as I accepted his arm.

We turned and left the beach, speaking and laughing like old friends would have behaved.

"I've met someone rather intriguing today," I announced Angela later that evening while we were cooking a chicken pie for dinner. I tried to sound casual but something in my voice must have caught her attention, because she turned to face me - one eyebrow doubtfully raised.

"Have you? Now, _that_'s interesting…" Angela said with a smile. She put her hands on her hips with an amused look on her face, provoking me to say some more. "Care to elaborate?"

"Well, there isn't that much to talk about. He's a man..."

"Obviously," Angela cut me off, barely retaining her laughter.

"Now why would that be so obvious?" I retorted a little flustered.

"Because you were out most of the day, then you returned in this better mood, with a bit of color in your cheeks and on top of all, with this huge smile!" she enumerated while resuming her cooking. "And I doubt that a woman could have made all those changes in your disposition in one day. I mean, look at me… I've been working my ass here for weeks to lighten you up with little or no result."

I was shocked by her pertinent remarks. What was I doing? Was the fact I had enjoyed a pleasant day in a pleasant male company sufficient to make all those apparently conspicuous changes in me? Was that enough to make me forget about the special circumstances due to which I was here now instead of my dear home?

My lack of response made Angela turn around and watch me worriedly. She took a quick step and grabbed me by my shoulders, looking me in the eye.

"Look, Bella… The last thing in the world I would do is to judge you. Don't get me wrong. I was only teasing you, sweetheart; I was trying to maintain a light tone in our discussion." She hesitated a bit then sighed. "I feel responsible for you, Bella. You came here; you came to me in search for solace and comfort. You have been apathetic, on several mornings even lethargic. You worry me immensely and my hands are tied… there isn't much I can do to help."

Her eyes were wet. I knew her every word was true.

"So I think it is wonderful you've met someone interesting to spend time with, someone who I believe is making you curious, because curiosity is a wonderful remedy for depression, sweetie… You have to trust my opinion on this. If this is good for you, you should go along with it. It is only common sense, Bella… Your life is not over. You need to heal…so please, let the healing begin."

She hugged me tightly and I reciprocated in earnest. She next whipped her eyes and returned to cutting vegetables.

"Now… why won't you go on with your story? You've met him by yourself, without me facilitating it, so what is he? A fellow American?"

I inhaled deeply and tried to recover some of the cheerful, but suddenly lost mood as I was searching appropriate words to describe to her my very agreeable encounter. I let her know what I had learned about Jake from our easily flowing exchange, and how we'd had a very nice, typical getting-to-know small talk, which however, lacked all that awkward, predictable tension. By the time I had finished, only a small, indefinite amount of guilt still lingered in my heart.

That night I dreamt of Edward again. Well, actually, I dreamt about his hands, resting on the steering wheel of a car in a relaxed grip. It was oddly clear, my dream, and utterly unusual.

I loved Edward's hands; they were by sheer size and strength, absolutely sensual, and I loved what he did to me with them. In my dream, I watched transfixed the stately length of his fingers, as they were wrapping and unwrapping around the leather-covered wheel in a somewhat lazy, impatient caress. There was an erotic expressiveness in that illusory image of his elegant, gentle, yet extremely masculine hand maintaining that position, like a subtle teaser of an upcoming caress, like a hint, like a promise...

All I could think of, when I woke up gasping and eaten up with longing, was having that hand at the small of my back, on the curve of my neck, at the back of my knee, cradling, shielding, loving, nurturing...

On the following morning, a vast portion of my wandering attention was still captured by the foggy remnants of my dream. I felt so undone as if I had just experienced Edward's touch for real. At the same time, I was astounded by the strange springs of my mind and wondered how an insignificant, neutral and apparently harmless vision of his hands could unleash such an emotional havoc. It was difficult to step out of that cloud of mingled feelings, of stark yearning and bitter frustration, so the sound of Angela's voice made me wince.

"Woolgathering much?" she asked while handing over a steaming cup of coffee.

"Hm-hm…"

"What were you thinking about?"

"You know…volatile stuff…" I sipped from my mug so I could cover my embarrassment. What if I'd unconsciously worn an immodest expression that Angela had deciphered correctly? Why else would she ask me about my thoughts? She had an enigmatic little smile that made me feel as if I were ten again.

"I think you're in for a big surprise…" she said evenly.

I felt my stomach knotting in fear.

"What do you mean? Has a letter for me finally arrived?" I asked with shaking voice.

"No, there's nothing like that…" she reassured me, still secretly amused. "I think you should take a look outside."

I cautiously did as she suggested and I was instantaneously gaping in surprise. In front of the building, fussing around an obsolete motorcycle was my recent acquaintance from the previous day.

"That's Jake!" I exclaimed disconcerted.

"I've figured that much… He has been there for almost an hour and I think he must have polished that vehicle of his twice by now. Now…such perseverance must be rewarded somehow. Why won't you go over there and invite him in for a cup of fresh coffee? I still have a little time before I have to leave for work and I would like very much to meet him. This young man shows potential…"

Angela was chortling quite openly and soon I found myself giggling too.

The crispy autumn wind swirled around me as I stepped outside of the house. Shivering slightly, I advanced towards Jake who, absorbed into his bike's meticulous pampering, had not noticed me approaching.

"Will you admit now to stalking me?" I asked, faking annoyance.

He turned to me and showed me again that broad smile of his."I'll admit anything you want me to, if you come and take a ride with me," he said, bursting with pride.

"On this? You expect me to mount on this?" I asked, mildly horrified; I had never seen myself as a motorcycle person. "It is a fine piece of machinery, Bella, and it is in great shape for its age," he said a little disappointed by my lack of enthusiasm. "It is a 1951 Indian Chief! I found it all forgotten under a huge pile of rubbish in a friend's shop and I had to trade a car for it. The guy knew how to bargain."

"You mean it's a classic vintage…" I said, beginning to get the picture.

"That's right," he responded, his smile flourishing again. "It took me ages to restore it myself. It looks great now. And runs great too! This bike can keep up with all the modern cruises. It's priceless," he continued with a dreamy smile, petting his bright red bike like it had a soul.

"You didn't mention having mechanical skills," I kept trying to avoid a straight answer to his preposterous request.

I carefully examined his features. He looked hopeful yet uncertain and a little disillusioned, like a boy who was being temporarily refused a candy. He was actually, proudly presenting me his treasure so I felt obliged to put a different reaction on display. I collected all my courage with a deep intake of breath and spoke hurriedly, afraid I might change my mind.

"If it means that much to you, then okay, I'll take a ride with you on your very special motorcycle. But just so you know, I'm kind of accident prone and slightly uncoordinated, '_not to mention utterly scared by the perspective of riding a bike older than my mother,' _I added to myself, "and I will most surely hinder your actions." I categorically warned him in the most adamant tone I could gather, considering I was at that point fairly trembling from cold.

"Really, you will? Look, there's nothing to worry about, I brought a helmet and an extra motor rider jacket of mine for you," he brightly reassured me, smiling as if he'd won the lottery or something.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever you say..." I muttered doubtingly in view of the fact that I knew better. "Although, taking into consideration the age of your bike, I would have expected you to bring along a leather Viking helmet or something similar," I teased him. "Now, let's get inside... I must change for this crazy venture and Angela is dying to meet you. You've made quite an impression on her."

Once inside, Jake connected to Angela almost immediately and the room became alive with light-hearted, jovial chatter, and infused with energy and laughter. He made friends so easily that it left me wondering.

**Thank you for reading this silly, silly story.**


	5. Chapter 5

**I own nothing but an exasperating obsession.**

Much to my surprise, I managed to survive unscathed to that ride, even though, at the moment of the actual mount on the bike, I had been effectively terrified. I must have looked like from another planet wearing Jake's oversized motor jacket and that bulky helmet that didn't fit me quite properly. The merit of my escaping unmarred was of course, entirely Jake's, although I held on to his waist for dear life all the way through. In addition, I kept my eyes shut most of time, but I would have not admitted that aloud.

The other surprise was that I rather enjoyed the experience, although I was reluctant to describe it, as Jake did, as 'exhilarating'. However, the real enticing aspect was Jake's expression; seeing his extreme joy, him being so untroubled and free, so utterly free, due to such a little thing as a motorcycle ride, made me question my attitude towards life. Maybe we all make this mistake of being far too severe, far too solemn, formal and grave about life in general. Maybe we all take ourselves more seriously than we should.

In the days following our adventurous-for-me experience, he kept on showing up, using the craziest and sweetest excuses that were each time forcing me to stifle involuntary smiles. He certainly had all of Angela's support, who even invited him for dinner one Thursday night, and who, later on, used the transparent pretext of being the only person in the room who actually had to wake up early in the morning, to excuse herself and retire after the meal.

"I'll get even for that!" I mouthed to her behind Jake's back as she was leaving the room wearing a little naughty smile. That left Jake and I much-too-conveniently-to-my-liking alone for the rest of the evening; he used that moment to ask me out.

"What do you mean, go out with you?" I asked, bewildered.

"What's difficult to understand here, Bells?" Jake replied slightly exasperated. "I'm asking if you would like to go out for dinner and a movie with me on Friday night," he clarified with a hopeful expression.

"I don't know about that, Jake..." I trailed off, searching hastily in my head some solid reason to turn him down softly. Other than the obvious one.

"It will be fun, you'll see! I'll show you around Stockholm, it's a wonderful city!" he enthusiastically tried to persuade me.

"I don't know if that's appropriate..." I hesitantly began.

"Why is that?"

"First of all, I'm..." I intended to add_ 'married_', but I stopped abruptly as my gaze fell on his face; it was radiant with optimism and anticipation and I watched it long enough to lose my determination.

"...older than you." I cowardly finished my sentence. "You should date girls your own age. I'm sure there are plenty of attractive girls at your University." My voice grew stronger the further I distanced myself from the moment of truth. I felt like such a fraud.

"Come on, Bella, you can't be serious! Six years isn't a generation gap," he told me. "It's just a slight age difference. Besides, you mustn't overanalyze this... It's only a dinner invitation, no strings attached," he added, raising his palms in a non-violent gesture. That last argument of his eased up things a bit for me. "Look, I'll even borrow a car so we won't have to ride my bike. This way you will be able to wear... I don't know...clothes that are more feminine."

"Jacob Black! Are you specifically suggesting I should wear a dress that night? That's pretty cocky, now, isn't it?"

"No, no, that's not what I meant... I was only trying to ease your mind about the bike, that's all!" I could have sworn he was blushing under his dark skin.

"You know, Jake, having dinner out can be pretty expensive... Maybe we should settle for a burger instead..." I cautiously advanced, but instantly realizing that I'd made a mistake. I'd hurt his pride.

"I have money..." he stiffly replied, shifting his shoulders in a rigid position. His eyes were suddenly sadder and his smile gone.

Oh, dear, I was a monument of diplomacy. "_Not one of your cleverest moments, now, is it Bella_?" I mentally chastised myself. I needed to fix that gaffe and be quick about it. I took his hand and did the only think I could think of to straighten my slip-up. I said yes.

"Jake invited me out for dinner on Friday..." I bluntly announced Angela the next day.

"Really? And what did you say?" she questioned, giving me an inquisitive look.

"Let's just say he was pretty convincing..." I responded with a blank expression.

"Good." She maintained her gaze on me.

"What?"

"I still have two questions for you..."

"Shoot!"

"The first. Have you mentioned to him at this point...you know, Edward...?"

I sighed and the tingle of guilt reappeared. "I could not bring myself to do it last night. It was this awkward moment and I tried not to make things even more embarrassing. Nevertheless, I'm determined to let him know that I am not romantically available to him as soon as an opportunity presents itself." Angela nodded approvingly.

"The second question?" I challenged her, pleased with myself that I'd at least _sounded_ so firmly decided.

"What are you going to wear?" she asked me with a devious little smile.

I hadn't been thrilled with the necessary shopping trip, firstly because shopping had never been my thing and secondly, my budget was more than strained thanks to the plane ticket. I didn't have enough money to waste it on clothes, but still, there was no outfit in my suitcase even remotely appropriate for dinner in a restaurant.

I feared that Angela might have the same maddening drive for malls as Alice, but to my relief, she was practical, organized and efficient, therefore within a couple of hours we had purchased everything, from silk stockings to little, discreet silver earrings.

At home, this whole affair would have taken all day, with a frenzied Alice dragging me to each and every boutique. Unlike Alice, I would never buy clothes for anything other than functionality. I had neither the desire nor the necessary flair; besides, I had always felt guilty at such narcissistic folly.

My heart stung a little at the thought of Alice. I missed her. I missed her a lot. I wondered for a split second what she might think of me now; or if she'd approve my choice, this dark grey boiled wool tailored dress, with cap sleeves and funnel neck. Coming to the knee, it had a panel of black satin on the hem with a subtle stripe stitched through it and matching satin binding around sleeve ends. A leather thong belt sat around the waist. I liked it dearly and it was not only beautiful, but luckily on sale.

Angela and I went next in search for shoes, after briefly taking into consideration the option of boots.

Angela measured the dress again then quickly decided.

"Shoes, definitely shoes..."

The last stop was at a lingerie shop, where she forced me to enter.

"You need something new and spectacular to make you feel special."

"Angela, I have no intention to..." I began to protest.

"I know," she interrupted me. "This is for you only; and for your state of mind."

Later on, we were in the bathroom where Angela was doing a loose French twist on my hair, which she firmly believed would match my outfit. The dress itself felt amazing. On the hunger, it had looked warm, discreet and of good taste, but once put on, it had this subtle provocative effect, although it wasn't too revealing; it was softly molding on every curve of my body like a second skin and it made me feel...sensual. Yes, that would be the right description. That emotion was both rousing and irritating because it made me feel so powerful, yet it revealed my weak, subconscious need to be admired, to be desirable and to be wanted.

"_What if he tries to kiss me_?" The thought abruptly popped into my head and, as a result, I involuntary pictured Jake, grinning confidently and moving closer still, dwarfing me with his size, leaning above me... I winced in spite of myself, getting this spine-chilling sensation of something ghastly crawling on my skin. _"God, I am so not ready for this..."_

"Now, what's with the long face?" Angela shook me from my reverie.

"I don't know, Angela, this doesn't feel right," I exhaled, burdened.

"It's rather late now to have second thoughts. Why don't you try to relax and enjoy your night out, and you can figure out what to do afterwards," she advised me while she made final adjustments to my hair. "I am done! Let me take a look at you!"

She made me turn around, measured me thoroughly then clapped her hands in a childish, happy gesture.

"You look stunning! Like Audrey Hepburn..."

"Is that so?..." I sneered. "Which one?"

"What do you mean, which one?" she asked intrigued.

"I mean which Audrey...Eliza Doolittle or Holly Golightly?" I held myself in derision some more.

"It doesn't matter, they both turned out beautifully! Now, cut the unnecessary sarcasm and let's get out of this bathroom! I absolutely must have a glass of wine while I admire my work."

Angela was in the kitchen to bring the wine and I was sitting in the same brooding mood on the sofa in the living room when the doorbell rang.

"It looks like our chevalier has arrived!" Angela yelled from the kitchen with a bit more enthusiasm then necessary. "Just in time to help us open the bottle!"

"Earlier than expected, though," I observed, after a brief glance at the clock on the table.

"Impatient, like all men…" she supplied laughing. I smiled weakly in response, doubtfully shaking my head.

"Not much to be impatient for here…" I murmured to myself.

"I'll get it! You stay there and look beautiful!" She placed the glasses and the wine on the coffee table, gave me an encouraging smile and headed for the door.

I rose and mechanically, absentmindedly straightened my dress. I was growing increasingly nervous, like a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs; the situation seemed even more improper now, it felt awkward and I was remorseful for having agreed on doing this. We shouldn't have spent all that time together, I shouldn't have tacitly encouraged him and sure as hell, I shouldn't have accepted his dinner invitation. All of that could so easily give him the wrong idea, if that hadn't happened already. I had to come forward and I had to do it fast.

"Hello! My name is Edward Cullen, and I believe you have my wife here, living with you."

With lightning-like speed, that silken voice penetrated my ears, the back of my neck, sent cold shivers down my spine, steel cringes through my stomach and aching throbbing in my core. My knees must have started to shake, because I found myself sitting again on the sofa.

"_Edward…" _I mumbled in disbelief, _"Edward is here?" _

I felt right away dizzy and nauseous and the voices from the door became indistinct, overtaken by the frantic sound of my heartbeat thundering in my own ears. Unwarily, my hands clenched in my lap. I idly hoped that clutched together like that, they would not tremble; I watched my knuckles slowly turning white as my breath became erratic and shallow.

I heard footsteps and a tall, black shadow entered the room, followed by the thin frame of my friend. It had been something in his voice that made me fear…something menacing, dark, restrained like an overloaded spring ready to snap at any given moment.

For a few silent minutes, I continued to stare at my hands, with a blank expression, a mixture of overwhelming feelings keeping me from looking at him. But his voice, filled with sureness and calm authority, broke the silence and I was suddenly violently blushing, like I hadn't done it in months.

"Good evening, Isabella."

My name on his lips, even so, not in his endearment form, was like a balm to my serrated wounds. I slowly raised my eyes, but in the next moment I inhaled sharply, my lips parted and I barely stifled a sound of involuntary surprise. He looked gorgeous, hair in its usual disarray, but jaded, haggard and tired; pale, as he had not been sleeping in days.

He stood, ramrod straight, right in front of me. His eyes were dark and smoldering like hot coals and I could feel his gaze burning me from head to toe as he measured me like some exhibit item.

Rigid shoulders, tensed jaw, clenched fists part hidden by the sleeves of his coat. He was dressed impeccably as always, black, custom-made suit, which fitted him perfectly, like the male model he was. Longing, repressed desire, need, all gradually started building in my chest as I stared greedily back at him with hungry eyes.

"Hello, Edward." I whispered. I wished I did not sound so hoarse.

He was inhumanly handsome as ever; still, something was different and I couldn't quite put my finger on it. He was alluring in a dangerous way, almost ominous, his entire demeanor appearing to be determined and unmerciful.

"You look well. It seems Europe suits you," he observed quietly, with a slight shade of irony behind his words. His eyes, though, seemed milder, softened by a sudden relief.

Before I had the chance to answer, the doorbell chimed once more and, in the next moment, a wave of dread overwhelmed me. It must be Jake at the door. I had completely forgotten about him and, in a rising flood of panic, I foresaw the incoming, terribly theatrical scene. What chance was there that Edward would show up here tonight of all nights, at the same time I was having this foolish night out planned?

A few seconds later, the bell impatiently rang again, and Angela went to open it, not before throwing a wary, reluctant look at me.

My breathing stopped and a steel claw grabbed brutally my heart. "_This is a sheer impossibility; this is not real, not now, not when I have this infinitesimal chance to obtain the smallest of explanations, I want him to stay just a little bit longer, no, God, please!" _I thought hectically, anticipating Edward's reaction, imagining how this might look from his point of view, futilely praying, as cold sweat covered my forehead and my palms. Time seemed to expand itself and seconds turned into long, frozen ages.

"Bells, let's go! I hope you're ready!" I heard Jake shouting from the door. "I picked you some flowers on my way here; I thought they might amuse you!"

He hurled inside looking all of a sudden boyish, flippant and noisy in comparison with the dead-serious man in front of him. Even the innocent wild flowers in his hand seemed so blatant and impudent.

Edward stiffened in a flash, his jaw set tight as if he had bared his teeth for attack, then, after just seconds of appraising Jake, turned to me in slow motion and said icily:

"You must really loathe me, Isabella".

Jake felt the mood in the room and froze his advancement, somehow sensing Edward's authority and taken aback by his obvious aura of dominance. The two men glared at one another, assessing each other; they made quite a powerful juxtaposing.

"Hi, my name is Jacob Black! I'm here to take Bella to dinner!" Jake awkwardly explained his presence and, after a slight hesitation, childishly offering his free hand to Edward.

"I know who you are, Mr. Black", Edward snarled, rudely ignoring Jake's raised hand.

I came to myself with a loud gulp and exhaled as if I had been holding my breath. Which at same point, I most definitely had.

"Jake, this is my husband, Edward Cullen," I lamely attempted to make some kind of introductions, my voice strangled and faint.

"...whom she's not seen for about six long weeks and consequently, Mr. Black, I hope you will understand that Isabella won't be able to honor your plans for tonight," Edward firmly and quickly finished my phrase, in an even more threatening tone than before.

A very light tint of surprise flickered on Jake's face when he moved his eyes to look at me, but Edward had always had a keen perception and so he took it for what it was. He gave a painful bark of a laugh and scraped a hand through his hair, as if he were unable to believe his eyes.

"Why do I get the feeling that Mr. Black wasn't aware of your marital status, Isabella? As far as I knew, it was not your style to deceive impressionable young men, dear," he chuckled darkly. "Or more experienced ones, for the matter," he added under his breath, through clenched teeth, never dropping his gaze from Jake.

"Maybe you should inform me of what else has changed in both your life perspective and behavioral pattern, darling, so I won't be caught off-guard like Mr. Black here… That would be a pitiable position, wouldn't you agree?" he added, without turning to look at me.

His sarcasm was crushing. I could not even begin to think of something to say, still astonished by his unexpected presence and more and more intimidated by his cruel remarks. I remained quiet and immobile as a giant wooden puppet.

A couple of silent minutes went by, until Edward spoke again.

"It is quite apparent that my wife and I have a lot to discuss, so, will you, please, excuse us, Mr. Black?" It was nothing polite in the way Edward uttered his request.

"I'm sorry for the inconvenience, but let me assure you of my gratitude for keeping my wife entertained," he ironically continued his dismissal while flushing a smile full of teeth.

Jake shifted embarrassed his weight from one foot to another, fumbled with the flowers a little until he placed them awkwardly on a table and searched for an appropriate exit line. I could see his discomfort in his furrowed brows, as he was trying to evade Edward's merciless scrutiny. I felt bad for him and I bitterly resented my unconsciousness. I did this to him. I put him into this deplorable position.

"Well, then… I'll talk to you tomorrow, Bella."

Edward made a sound in his throat close to a growl, and abruptly interrupted Jake, in poorly hidden impatience.

"Not if I have something to say on the matter! It is, however, _my_ intention to have a discussion with you tomorrow; that is if you could spare a moment of your time. I know where to reach you. Good night, Mr. Black."

I remained alone in the room while Edward saw Jake to the door. That might be considered inappropriate, I thought, since he wasn't the host here, but Angela must have discreetly exited sometime after Jake's entrance. I did not even notice her leaving us; my attention was drawn to Edward at the time, and to the modern warfare developing in front of my eyes.

However, I rather suspected in Edward's gesture another attempt of imposing male territorial boundaries over to Jake, as if his earlier displays of verbal force weren't clear enough. That had been beyond any doubt, the most embarrassing situation I had ever put myself into; but now was not a good moment to dwell upon the coup-de-theatre that had just taken place.

I would take my time in feeling ashamed and wretched as soon as Edward would be gone. But for now, he was here and I intended to make the most of my time with him. There were so many questions to be asked! Although I knew that, at some point, I would have to face him, I was still tremendously shocked by his arrival. None of my mental series of developments prepared me for the real thing. It was breathtaking and frightening, and somehow it didn't fit my scenario. I should have been the angry party.

He strode back into the room so quietly that his footsteps were not discernible. I longed for him already, even though he had barely been out of my sight. All he did for a while was to stand there, watching me, waiting in silence. I didn't imagine he was in fact, gathering other nasty words to stab me with. His following inquiry broke the remains of my heart to pieces.

"So, '_Bells_'," his lips twisted in disgust as he emphatically articulated Jake's caress, "my side of the bed hasn't even cooled yet and you're already searching for my replacement?"

My tongue went numb and leaded. I lowered my forehead, trying desperately to stop my tears from falling and I bit my lip to open wound just to keep my muffled sobs from his hearing.

"If the company of other men was what you were craving for, Isabella, you shouldn't have put yourself through the trouble of such a long and difficult journey. That could have been easily taken care of back home."

The words snapped off his lips like whips and they made my stomach knot up on the point I feared I might vomit.

"Since I have obviously messed up your plans with that _boy_, and since you're all dressed up, maybe I should take you out all the same_. _What do you say, Isabella? Will you allow me to escort you to dinner tonight? It is the least I can do for my long-lost wife, in compensation for my spoiling of her evening..."

His voice became sharper and grittier with every spoken word. Like the blade of a knife. I was still unable to fully restrain my distress. I couldn't speak just yet. I nodded.

"What did you say, Isabella?" he demanded.

My voice came out in a whisper.

"Your lips move but I can't hear what you're saying! Look at me and speak up!" he ordered impatiently.

I forced my head upright, tears blinding me, lips bleeding, feeling very nearly sick from the pain inflicted by his derisive words.

"Yes. I would love for you to be my date, Edward."

**Thank you for reading these insane elucubrations.**


	6. Chapter 6

**I own nothing but a sick obsession and a bad stomach ache.**

I swallowed hard and with some difficulty, maintained my gaze locked with his for a few long heartbeats. The smallest of the smiles flourished on his lips, too vague to decipher it though, as he spoke further, in a softer tone.

"Good. Now, I'm sure you could use a moment to freshen up..."

The arrogant bastard was sending me to the bathroom. With some judicious reason too, I believed, if I looked only half as bad as I felt. I stood up mechanically, turned around and headed for the bathroom in a trance-like state. His will was crushing mine; I was barely in control of my own gestures and words.

"And Isabella..." I heard from behind.

"Yes?" My hand shaking still, rested on the doorframe, as I looked back at him over my shoulder.

"Do hurry, dear. We wouldn't want to lose our reservation." Again, some traces of irony deliberately not so well hidden lingered behind his concern.

I didn't give him an answer. I nodded and stepped out of the room. The moment I heard the click of the bathroom lock behind me, the scraps of my so-called barricades fell down. I seated with wobble knees on the bathtub edge, rested my elbows on my knees and took my face in my hands. Sighing. There was no use to cry anymore. Tearing my hair in despair was not much of a productive option either.

What was I to do? I breathed slowly, gathering my cool and trying to lower my frenetic heart beating. I stepped hard on my misery so that I could concentrate. A choice was coming, and I needed my head as clear as possible because I wanted to choose well. I rapidly evaluated the present situation and my alternatives; I could always confront Edward by making a brutal scene, screaming profanities at him and crying, spitting accusations only to make a victim of myself. Not here, in Angela's house, of course, and surely not now. It was easily accomplishable though, and it might counterattack his current attitude but it also was an efficient yet radical method of fast burning bridges behind. It is a relatively simple task to pick a fight, but then what? How to unspeak the words, how to undo the harm? It was the same prospect whose avoidance made me leave home in the first place. I resented that option. Besides, that might prove imprudent since I had yet to learn Edward's intentions in my regard.

Now it was the moment to ask myself sincerely, for the first time since the arrival of that horrible photo, what was it that _I_ wanted. My mental answer, shatteringly simple, was born in the same instant as the question. I wanted him. Always him. Seeing him just now only made that desire to stretch itself furthermore into new, sophisticated volutes. Sighing again.

"_What makes you think he'd want you still, my dear? His presence here?"_ my critical inner voice suddenly sneered. _"That hardly means anything valuable to you... Ending a marriage in person rather than using an intermediary is something Edward would consider a civil thing to do. You must agree he is ever so polite..."_

Bitterness swelled inside me, hard and bleak as granite.

Was I hopeful? I had to admit to myself that yes, I was getting a little optimistic... If that so, what triggered it? Nothing in his words justified this irrational felling. I focused harder, trying to decode the haze of tangled thoughts and emotions in my mind. Okay, for starters, he was here, but, as my detractor-self prior pointed, that was not much to hold on. The second argument, the one that really gave me some solid grounds was his obvious anger.

I hastily flipped images of his facial expressions, of his body language in my mind. It was terrifying and I could not wrap my mind around it; I never saw him so feral, at least never towards me. Every spoken word was dripping with contempt and leashed rage and it was inexplicable since presumably he didn't want me anymore.

My apparent involvement with Jake should ease things up for him, should make the separation procedure less complicated. He should be hugely relieved instead of angry. Unless... I inhaled deeply...breaking apart was not what he had in mind. My heart stopped for a second at that thought and next I was struggling for air again. Such hypothesis changed everything...

I mentally replayed his lines in search for faults, for clues, for cracks in his impenetrable armor. It was far too soon to tell for sure. In this case, maybe the wise thing to do was to go along with him, playing docile and compliant, at least until his plan would be revealed. I would refine my strategy then.

"_You are ready to abandon yourself to him once more but there are still things to be taken into consideration here_... _Has he ended the affair? Are you able to forgive him for it? Will he do it again?"_ The critic piped up, yet again, much to my sorrow.

These cutting queries embittered me and all my buried resentment and internal anger resurfaced. But I had to handle it. I stood and gave myself a thorough look in the mirror. My face was a mess. Bearing the remnants of my dried tears along with traces of every unpleasant thought that had crossed my mind in the last few minutes, it was no pretty picture.

Scattered around the vanity, the cosmetic paraphernalia earlier used by Angela, lay still. I watched them for a second, musing. If I had to give up my pride to get him back, I would do it. Hell, if I had to give up my entire being, I would do it. After all, as that movie line said, "_surrender is no defeat for a woman_..."

That thought made me smile dryly and I determinedly began to redo my make-up. My hands were shaking no more. I shut off all conscious thought, concentrating solely on physical gestures requested by the recovery of my maquillage and I took my time with it. He was already irritated, what was he going to do about my being behind his schedule?

The result was pleasingly satisfactory. "_Okay, Edward_," I concluded as I pouted my lips to retouch the lipstick, "_I'm game_."

This promised to be, at least in an unconventional manner, a fascinating evening. I reached for the door handle, pausing long enough to take in a long, final breath, bracing myself. I shook my head with an indulgent sigh; despite current circumstances, the intimidating man standing in the other room was still my husband, not my mortal enemy.

While I was approaching the living room I heard him and Angela talking slowly; however, they stopped as I entered, both glancing at me with different expressions. Angela's was worried and anxious, his still tense and a bit irritated. I was determined to maintain the tenuous grasp on my composure though, so I faced them both with the same timid little smile, safely frozen on my lips.

"I'm ready. Sorry for keeping you waiting," I said softly, in the most innocent tone I could produce. He regarded me for a moment, his gaze traveling over the length of my body with an impenetrable face, like a general's look inspecting military troupes. I myself was not so tough; his sinful beauty hit me as strongly as ever and in a strange, wicked way, his menacing conduct and controlled anger made him even more fascinating to me. I always secretly liked his vindicated arrogance, as well as the sporadic touch of insolence, and very much to my concern, his present behavior seemed to have hit that vulnerable spot of mine again. I was attracted to him like a moth to a flame. I hoped that would not be too evident to him.

"We should be going then," he said in a casual tone, but still able to convey a staggering air of command.

The coat that Angela had offered me to borrow was on the arm of the sofa, so I stepped in that direction. He was faster and by the time I reached for it, he was already holding it for me so that I could slip my arms into the sleeves. When he brought the coat up to my shoulders, his knuckles gently brushed up against me and for a fleeting second I wanted to linger in that position, secretly appreciating the intense feeling of his touch, no matter how brief. But such reaction would have been foolish. Instead, I pulled away as soon as the coat was on and muttered a 'thank you' without looking in his direction.

We said our goodbyes to Angela and by the door I had another secret delectable sensation, when in a nice, firm gesture my husband pressed his hand just above my waist, allowing me to step out first while softly saying 'after you'. He might have left his fingertips to touch me up to the last moment as I walked away but through the coat, it had been hard to tell.

It was ridiculous how these small gestures which in other situation, the ideal, normal, all-lost-now kind of situation, would have remained unnoticed, now held the same significance as a milestone. I wondered if he was equally courteous to the other woman. Not much mystery in there, though. I would have bet my life that he was.

As I stepped outside into the gloomy evening, I noticed in front of the building a massive luxury sedan, clearly Edward's rental car. It glittered, dark and ominous, in the light of the street poles and it was an object of absolute beauty. I approached it with small steps and observed it in detail. It flagrantly revealed Edward's taste. Realizing once more his predilection for refined, tasteful, elitist things made my heart twist in pain with a poignant acknowledgement. I was no such thing.

I looked over my shoulder; he was still on the doorsteps, talking to Angela, his profile sharp and strong in the dim light from inside the house.

Oh, God, how I craved for him! A swift surge of desire shot through my body like an electric discharge and I even wavered on my feet for a second. He must have caught that with his peripheral vision, because he brusquely turned his head and looked in my direction with a cautious expression. Another few inaudible spoken words, his hand shaking Angela's, and he was now pacing towards me. He connected the distance between us with three swift strides and without further preparations, grabbed my elbow, opened the passenger door and instructed in a dry voice.

"Get in."

Still light-headed and a little dizzy, I obeyed his command in silence.

"_I must not let him see my weakness..."_ I sluggishly thought as I was fighting to extract my brain from the unexpected erotic vortex. A moment later, he was also in, the powerful engine running and his deft fingers playing with the dashboard buttons, giving precise orders to the car as he had done with me. The results were instant; the seat heated and began to warm up pleasantly my spine and the back of my legs while piano music started to drop from the surround sound system in a manner that made me feel like I was in the front row seats at the concert hall. I recognized the piece; it was one of his favorites.

I wondered shortly if he specifically requested the car to be outfitted with CDs containing his musical preferences. It sounded like something Edward would do. The car provided an interior fit for a king, a blend of power, space, luxury and comfort that all were on Edward's list of criteria in matters regarding means of transportation.

He shifted the gear stick and soon we were on the move into the night. In the past, I enjoyed very much to watch him drive. Precise gestures, sharp reflexes, slick, self-assured maneuvers were all a very enthralling display of masculinity to me. I kept my head down and stole a furtive glance at him under my lashes, trying to observe him now as well. I drank in his profile again as he focused on the road ahead, shadows casting on his face, traffic lights wrapping him in a game of glow and darkness, outlining his sharp nose, his soft lips and the strong, determined line of his jaw. His green eyes, idly reminding me of cabochon emeralds, stared into the distance despite the focus on the drive. The sight of him scorched my throat.

With the car now heated, the smells inside became more noticeable. The seats, the steering wheel and the gear stick were all trimmed in high-quality leather and its rich scent mixed with the exquisite one of Edward's cologne were making a dangerously hot combination for my senses. I could not get enough of it and I breathed in deeply, gradually, unwilling to let him notice that.

His scent was overwhelming and I was too weak to resist it anymore. I leaned my head against the headrest and let my eyes roam freely on him. When my gaze reached his hands, I could not but remember my recent dream, picturing a very similar position, and the previously experienced effects were instantaneous.

I brazenly evoked from my mental treasure chest the memory of his dazzlingly skilled fingers as they entered me, agonizingly slow, teasing and taunting, making me 'open like a lily to the heat' at the same time as he whispered outrageous but utterly delicious things into my ear.

I involuntarily gasped. I felt the hairs from the back of my neck curling from the sweat, a thin layer of hot perspiration also covering my palms and the valley between my breasts; my breathing became audible. That explicit fantasy got me keenly excited and I started to fidget in my seat to accommodate better my swollen core. I was grateful for wearing stockings instead of pantyhose; that helped me cool down a little, as I discreetly parted my knees.

Edward's body stiffened and his grip on the steering wheel tightened as I shifted in my seat. He must have sensed more than my eyes licking around his features because his nostrils flared and in a rapid shift turned his head and caught me staring. His eyes bored holes into my skull. Dilated pupils made them look black as a pitch. Not a hint of a smile or amusement on his face. My determination to appear nonchalant wilted rapidly under his silent, steady perusal. I looked away quickly in a flush of embarrassment.

"You forgot to fasten your seatbelt, Isabella and that is unwise. You should have also removed that coat. This is not a long drive, but it will get warm in here."

I hurriedly did as he advised, very grateful for the broken silence. I rushed to speak, a little too eager perhaps, my voice with a croaky rasp in it from disuse. And not only from that.

"Where are we going?"

"I was under the impression that I verbalized my intentions rather clearly earlier, Isabella. We are going to have dinner in a restaurant."

"I understood that. But where..."

"In Stockholm, of course," he abruptly cut me off. "There are not that many places to have a meal around this small town that are opened at this hour, at least not one that would prove to be satisfactory."

I didn't say anything. As a result, he turned his head and scrutinized me, then returned his attention to the road, adding in an ironic manner.

"Well, Isabella, I hope you did not expect me to use Mr. Black's reservation, now, did you?"

I still did not respond. Instead, I tried to elucidate one puzzling aspect.

"How come you know Jake?"

"If I recall exactly, I did not affirm that I _knew_ him. I only said that I knew _who he was_... I'm sure you can discern the difference, my dear."

His tone was harsher, metallic and rough, but still that '_my dear'_ warmed me, however stupid of me. I boldly continued, encouraged by his apparent willingness for dialogue. I needed information and I needed it badly, but diplomacy was essential. I had never been enormously tactful, and the delicate situation requested to proceed further with precaution.

"Care to explain?"

"The actual occurrence under which I became aware of Mr. Black's existence should be the last of your concerns, Isabella!" he growled, apparently enraged again.

"And what should be on top of my list, Edward?" I inquired in a small but bitter voice, growing aggravated myself. _"Contemplating silently and docilely anonymous works of contemporary photography?" _I sourly added in my mind.

"It is quite apparent to me that there are more significant matters requiring your attention right now. Evidently, I caught you off guard this evening, you usually are very quick at perceiving the obvious," he answered in stinging irony.

Flushing violently from my own anger, I tossed my head irritably and spat back.

"Why did you come, Edward?" I cynically retorted, tempting fate a little too severely. "To ridicule me to death?"

I did not have the nerve to watch his reaction at my words. I stared out at the road. I only caught a glimpse of his fists getting tighter still on the wheel. The lights of the big city were showing in the distance. He was driving much too fast, as always.

"Why do _you_ think I am here, Isabella?" He was definitely mad now. I pushed my chin up, mouth tight, determined not to speak. If he decided to be a bastard, I might as well be a bitch. Or at least try to.

"If I have to force that answer out from you, Isabella, I'll do it!" he warningly snarled. I only clenched my teeth harder, maintaining an obstinate expression.

In a quick, smooth maneuver, he pulled the car over on the side of the road, engine still running; in the next instant, he was hovering over me, one of his arms against the dashboard, the other one behind my seat.

"Do you need me to rephrase my question?" he asked watching me intently, his face impossibly close, his sweet breath feathering across my cheek. His scent was stronger, rendering me feeble and defenseless. Nevertheless, I still inhaled sharply, greedily, making mental deposits of it to feed from in the lonely times ahead of me.

"Answer my question, Isabella..." he warned again, sharply enough to draw blood. He leaned over me, closer still, his lips merely inches from mine.

"I believe you are here to inform me about divorce proceedings..." My voice sounded very weak, the silence before and after my voice violently contrasting the thunder in my chest.

"Is that what you want, Isabella? A divorce?" His voice was iron and I swallowed queasily.

"Talk to me, dammit!"

It was not like him to use expletives. On the contrary, he disliked the custom immensely. I rushed to give him an answer.

"No, Edward. That is not _my_ wish." I thought my voice was remarkably stable, considering the palpable pressure. I noticed that the Moonlight Sonata pouring from the stereo had reached its highest point, adding a rather uncalled for, dramatic touch to the whole scene.

The longest heartbeats ever followed. I realized I had been holding on to a last shred of hope as I watched him slowly backing to his seat; I followed him with my eyes, hoping to read something, anything on his maddeningly unfathomable face. He placed his hands back on the wheel, his mouth a tight line as he maneuvered the vehicle back into the traffic.

He turned up a bit the volume on the sound system; obviously, a sign that there would be no further discussion. He managed to extort some answers from my lips, without giving me anything in return. I felt suddenly depleted, as though I had given blood; I might have known he'd be sure to have his way but I still felt regretful of having spoken.

However, quite unlike his usual self, Edward's behavior was seemingly capricious and his reactions, unpredictable. I had no desire to chance a negative outcome out from my own actions. I needed to show him somehow that I was going to behave myself without being careless enough to try to run some kind of mood swindle on him.

Soon enough we were at the outskirts of Stockholm and I had yet to decide how to act next. I had to put my resentment on hold, I needed to be polite and restrain my outbursts, because apparently those were the rules of the game. His game. His rules. But I was very much aware of my desire to please him. An opportunity offered itself, a very unusual one, he was here now, and it would be foolish of me to waste it. If I wanted him back, no situation was too precarious to exploit.

He settled the GPS car navigation system for his intended destination. Seemingly, outside the capital was not necessary. I used the moment to ask him pleasantly:

"When did you arrive?"

That was a silly question, but it made him look at me.

"What are you going to ask me next, Isabella? How was the weather in Rio?"

"_That crossed my mind, yeah..."_ I said to myself.

"I would still like to know," I offered, my voice soft and compliant.

For the instants he kept quiet, I drew the conclusion that silence can be mocking sometimes.

"This morning..." he finally answered, his eyes staring ahead. I began frantically to do the math; if he had arrived in the morning, why did he wait until evening to come to Angela's? It couldn't have been that difficult for him to find her address; that was a ridiculous idea. It intrigued me and I was considering the best way to formulate my question about that, when I noticed he was changing lanes. Moments later Edward stopped the car in front of a reddish building bearing the marks of a famous hotel franchise.

"We have arrived," he unnecessarily informed me then stepped out of the car to get both of our coats from the back seat. _"Maybe he is more affected than he shows..."_ I insanely allowed myself to hope. With that idea in mind, I opened the passenger door only to meet his hand offering assistance to get out of the car. I liked that. I thanked him with a sincere beam and accepted his hand.

I watched him moving around the car, draping the coats on his arm, handing the car keys to the valet parking; I just gawked at him, shamelessly. When he offered his arm and escorted me through the heavy-lit lobby into the restaurant, I tried very hard to keep in mind that _I was_ Audrey Hepburn. I kept my head high and smiled at him with everything I got.

I only hoped that he would see that.

**Thank you for reading.**

_References: Beethoven - Sonata No. 14 C sharp minor Op. 27 No. 2, Leonard Cohen – "A Thousand Kisses Deep"_


	7. Chapter 7

**I don't own anything. None of us does.**

As we entered, I noticed that the restaurant was not crowded. While Edward introduced himself to the magisterial maître d', I looked around. There seemed to be a mist that embodied the air inside that room and a storm of sparkling crystal chandeliers emitted a soothing and somewhat eerie glow like the moonlight. There was of course, comforting piano music. The view of the water and the city lights combined to achieve an inviting and pleasant atmosphere and I felt a sudden sting of nostalgia.

In the past, evenings like this had been the foreplay to passionate, amazing nights of lovemaking, and having dinner out was only an alleged reason to play our secret seduction game, in which half words or entire sentences carried simultaneously one meaning for the outside world and another, conspiratorial one for us as lovers. Little gestures, brief glances, well or not-so-well-hidden insinuations, apparently inoffensive remarks made in a casual tone or with flawless graciousness were all adding to the erotic tension that was steadily building during our exchange.

Questions, observations like "_How is your appetite this evening_?", "_This is not the only flavor I can sense at our table_...", "_You look famished..._" or "_I am barely in control of my hunger._.." spoken openly or in a soft voice, interweaved in our conversation sent shivers up my spine each and every time.

Edward sometimes intentionally prolonged such evenings, invoking a variety of on-the-spot invented pretexts, only to enjoy himself seeing my exasperation, my edginess poorly concealed in my pleading looks. "_Teaching me patience_..." he used to say. "_Anticipation is nine tenths of the pleasure..._" he would quote from one of my favorite movies, wearing that smile of his, like a boy about to do mischief. "_This minor delay will only augment your impending retribution, love..._" he'd whisperingly tease me as I would writhe under his amused, collected perusal, suffocating with impetuous yet subdued desire, still attentive not to let any of my real condition transpire into my appearance. At least, not to third parties. As a consequence, we sometimes did not make it to the bedroom. Sometimes we did not make it inside the house. And that always would be just the appetizer before a sophisticated, highly developed main course.

It was our private game; I had been trying to keep up with him, to be a worthy opponent, to resist his challenge, not to give in to his inhuman seduction power but it was a game lost in advance. Very similar to the one we were evidently playing tonight. Still, the difference lay in the result and tonight that would be a much-dreaded confrontation. The ghastly thought raised goose bumps on my skin and I shook my head trying to chase it away.

Apparently my flashback had lasted only a few seconds because Edward was still involved in his discussion with the maître d', reminding him his requirements for the evening. A quiet table for two. A simple request, but he expressed it along with some sincere and credible compliments for the restaurant and the imposing maître d' instantly blossomed in the presence of the little praise. Edward told him that he deliberately chose his restaurant as the venue for the evening because he heard that people were impressed with the quality of the food and the service. I watched in awe how, by being well mannered, confident and outgoing, Edward played that rigid man into eating out of the palm of his hand. He could do that ever so easily.

"If I may say so, sir, you do look like a man accustomed to receiving good service, and I really hope you and the Mrs. will enjoy each other's company completely and without distraction." His words hit home, at least where I was concerned. "Allow me to escort you to your table."

He led the way towards a large window behind the piano where a small table was set, partially hidden from the rest of the room by a large marble column.

"Here it is. There is a little dance floor over there," - he indicated with his hand a small round platform near the piano, - "...in case the madam would like to dance later on. And of course, there is also this spectacular view," he added while pulling a chair back for me to sit down. I thanked him with a smile and a nod and seated. We had everything: privacy, music, indirect light and a wonderful outlook. It was painfully perfect.

"Shall we order?" Edward glanced up at one of the waiters who hurried over with the menus. When he approached our table, Edward looked him in the eye, smiled and asked how he was doing. When intended, his smile was undeniably lethal and worked like a charm on both men and women. Again, Edward's little display of politeness won that waiter's heart forever but there was no surprise to me in such a scene. I was exceptionally grateful for the male waiter. I could not stand even the idea of a beautiful, surely blonde woman, drooling all over the table, so eager and anxious to fulfill every single one of my husband's demands. Edward requested to hear his recommendations, asked questions about the food and wine, and thanked him for his help, saying that we needed a moment to decide.

After he had gone, Edward turned his attention back to me. I was prepared and I quickly put back in place my Audrey smile. He measured me silently again, with eyes as frozen as black ice. My vague smile died away.

"Is everything to your liking, my dear?" he asked me with fake concern. "You must be feeling Mr. Black's absence as a sour deprivation and I have to do my best to be a commendable substitute. For starters, I hope this place meets your requirements..."

I waited for a heartbeat for his stinging comment to fade away.

"Yes, Edward, I like it. It is wonderful here," I replied softly. That rapid shift from absolute courteousness to strangers to unbelievable meanness towards me paralyzed my thinking process. "_Why are you doing this, Edward, why? Why are you so unkind_?" I wondered in silence.

The study of the menu gave me a chance to readjust my focus so I opened mine absently, affording only the briefest glance at the selections. I chose instead to study furtively my escort, contemplating the lines of his face, trying to no avail to read his thoughts. He was so handsome, I uselessly noticed. I probably should have been used to that by now — but I wasn't. Still, his physical appearance only to some extent had to do with my undying attraction to him. Observing Edward, one registered far more in regards to his manner than his looks.

"Something the matter, my dear?" he interrupted my thoughts without looking at me, apparently very interested in what that restaurant had to offer. Before I could form a reply to the sudden question, he continued matter-of-factly.

"You are barely paying any attention to your menu. Have you already decided what you are going to have? Hmmm... On the other hand, perhaps you are familiar with this place, although I would have thought that is rather out of Mr. Black league."

Arrogance again.

"I have never gone out with Jack, Edward," I hurriedly jumped to establish the truth.

"Besides tonight, did you mean?" he inquired sardonically. I breathed deeply and steadied my temper. "_Behave... You must behave, Bella..."_

"Technically, tonight I'm having dinner with you, Edward. And to establish facts, I've never been in this restaurant before, I didn't spend any evening out in company of other men and I am not checking out my menu because I was hoping that you would order for me."

He gave me an inquisitive look. I thought I'd seen one of his eyebrows slightly arching. Surprise? Disbelief? I wished I knew what he was thinking, God, I wished that so badly. Still, nothing more surfaced on his stark features.

"Very well, then," he concluded, closing up his menu. "Let that be so."

A single look in the waiter's direction was enough. Instants later, he was near us, ready to take the order. The staff really went out of their way to accommodate your needs here. Or was that true only for charismatic clients like my husband?

"We've made up our minds. My companion would like to try your magnificent, I'm sure, Grilled Beef rib-eye accompanied by a salad at your choice."

"And for you, sir?"

"Nothing for me, thank you."

"Are you sure, sir? I mean, as I told you before, tonight we have a wonderful..."

"I'm pretty sure, thank you." Edward quickly disrupted the waiter effusion with his dry remark but his following dashing smile whipped all of that much-too-eager-to-please little man worries away.

"Shall I bring you something from the bar?"

"Yes, please. A gin and tonic for the lady and a double scotch for me." He indicated to the waiter his favorite brand.

"Very well, sir. Let me know if you change your mind."

"Certainly," Edward replied pleasantly, handing him back the menus.

I witnessed the little exchange in mild astonishment. His choice for hard liquor instead of an eclectic, ridiculously expensive wine. His refusal to eat.

"What is it, Isabella? He asked in an impartial tone after a brief glance at me. "Why are you wearing that innocent, disorientated deer look on your face?" His expression held evident curiosity.

"Aren't you going to eat? I was under the impression you were interested in local cuisine and..."

"My appetite is rather dour this evening," he cut me off with a hint of impatience. "Besides, I'm not here to eat..." he added resolutely.

"Why are you here, then, Edward?" I inquired softly, risking a furtive look at him.

"Why, Isabella, I imagined that to be evident! I'm here to offer you an unforgettable, magical, outstanding evening, the kind that Mr. Black would have given you, in more ways than one, I'm sure."

I noted the emphasis placed on the plural aspect of the way Jake presumably might have entertained me.

"But I don't seem to be doing such a great job, after all... Isabella you appear to be uncomfortable, fatigued, stressed...do I need to continue? Am I doing this to you?" he asked after a little pause. He sounded bitterly amused.

I turned my eyes away from him, clenching my teeth against all the wild accusations I was tempted to spew back at him. Luckily, our beverages arrived and I took a long, greedy sip from mine. I used to like the gin but I rarely drank it anymore since I had grown accustomed with Edward's fine taste in wine. Again, another odd pick. I suspected every of those seemingly strange actions of his to be just assessments of my state of mind. He had been provoking me from the first minute of his arrival.

I peeked at him from the corner of my eye, and he was still staring at me. He seemed to be waiting for me to say something.

"Are you trying to get me drunk?" I asked, pointing at my glass. He stifled a sneering laugh, already emptying his.

"Why would I want to do that?" Never a straight answer to a direct question.

"To humiliate me some more..." I answered caustically. "You seem to have developed a hobby recently. And you're very good at doing it. As you are at everything else... " My voice trailed off.

He raised his glass a little, signaling to the distanced waiter that he needed a refill.

"I'm not interested in doing that," he evenly replied. "It is rather juvenile and uncreative." Again, a fruitless exchange.

"You could have fooled me..."

The waiter reappeared shortly bringing his second drink and my food; the plates looked wonderful. Although I did not feel the need to eat, I absentmindedly took a bite, welcoming the few extra moments to think. We were like two adversaries circling around inside of an imaginary fight ring, weighing each other's mind, carefully considering the best way to strike. None of us would give up his position, not until a soft spot would reveal itself. His state of anger, however controlled, apparently was his weakness. Still, his weapons were better and my defense ineffectual. I started playing with my fork and wondered when it would be suitable to start questioning him. Would he deny his affair? Would he try to convince me that all that happened was an ephemeral event? An incident? A momentary lapse of reason?

"Aren't you hungry this evening Isabella? You don't appear to be... Perhaps if we danced, your appetite might improve."

I honestly feared my reaction; exposing myself to the predictable effects of his propinquity might not be the brightest idea since my treacherous body never failed to respond to his in an apparently un-stealthy way. He would see right through me.

"I don't feel like dancing, Edward..." I tried an unskillful evasive maneuver.

"Come on, Isabella, humor me... After all, we must check all those little boxes. I'm sure you'd have accepted a similar invitation from Mr. Black."

"You seem to be very confident about your extensive knowledge of my being, Edward..."

"The opposite would be unacceptable, my dear. If one doesn't know one's spouse like the back of the hand, then who would?"

"Who, indeed..." I responded wryly. His irony had a double-cut he seemed unaware of.

Fluidly, he rose and held out his hand. He let loose the full force of his eyes against me, unequivocally dazzling, up to the moment where I sensed a familiar, yet dangerous vertigo.

"Dance with me, Isabella..." His voice was a hypnotic, luring, irresistible beckoning. He did not let go of my eyes until pressed by his flaming look I consented to his request. I took a deep breath and stood up. I met my husband's challenging gaze as steadily as possible then paused a moment to smooth my skirt over my hips with trembling hands before preceding him towards the empty, intimidating dance floor. He followed close behind me, whispering 'Very good'.

Seconds later, I was in his arms, slowly swaying to the music. A head above me, he surveyed the room with sharp, dark eyes.

"Every man in here is watching you," he said quietly, passing his fingers ever so gently over my backside as other men's eyes might have. "And why not? You look breathtaking tonight," he gently murmured.

That unexpected admiring comment sounded sincere and I was elated by his sudden grace; I felt a strange surge of pleasure that warmed me up, heated my blood, like a shot of heroin in my veins. He was impossibly close, but still his body came just short of touching mine. Every single one of my senses was overwhelmed by his proximity. His smell - cologne mixing with his unique, unmistakable male scent -, which made my head spin, the rumbling of his voice in his chest, the feeling of the fine wool of which his suit was made, the flexing of his back muscles under his jacket... His velvety, smooth voice near my temple...his sweet breath on my tongue as I greedily inhaled... The sight of him sitting closer to me than I have allowed myself to hope lately... His eyes, in that deep shade of green measuring me in amused satire. His ever-taut jaw. His fully lips so close to mine, so close, that a simple raise on tiptoes would suffice to cover that small, excruciating distance. So tempting...

I did not believe it to be possible but somehow I managed to restrain myself from doing exactly that. Instead, an unintended, vivid remembrance of one of his kisses invaded my mind and in merely seconds that became more than I could stand. My knees were already weak, but now I was beginning to shake and I could feel my arms and hands trembling on his shoulders. I closed my eyes and rested my forehead on his chest, suddenly too tired and weak to pretend anymore. I felt fragile, as if I were made of cracked glass, as if my translucent bones, my crystal skull, my disintegrating flesh were in danger of falling apart at the tiniest shove. I wished I could uphold that posture forever, secretly drinking him in, feeling him, adoring him. Nevertheless, much too soon, he stopped dancing altogether and stepped back. I was sure he could sense in the subtle quivering of my body.

"What is it, Isabella?" he asked me alarmed. His voiced held nothing but genuine concern. No sarcasm. No derision. At least it seemed so. Encouraged by his tone, I forced my head up and looked at him. I could feel tears starting to form in my eyes. I felt this urge to be honest, to throw away my stupid, useless Venetian mask.

"Are you feeling sick? Do you wish to retire for the evening?" he asked me again solicitously. His voice was warm and low in pitch and floated around me like a caress.

"No, Edward. Is nothing like that," I finally answered in a little voice, attempting to form a smile. I wistfully looked at him and confessed in a whisper: "I am simply intoxicated by your presence..."

In a flash, he froze; his face turned to stone and his jaw tightened. I did not foresee such an outcome and I was perplexed by his non-verbal response. He took another step back, distancing further from me.

"Aren't you changing sides rather quickly, Isabella? He managed to utter between clenched teeth. "I mean, a few hours ago, was it or wasn't Mr. Black sufficient to get you into the same...inebriated state?"

Contempt flashed across his face and something else. Hate, disparagement I have come to expect, but sadness?

He grabbed my wrist and almost dragged me back to the table. Luckily, our corner was poorly lit and no one seemed to pay us any attention. Once seated, he hastily signaled the waiter, who materialized from the thin air near our table in a beat.

"Would you care to see our set of choices for sweets, sir?"

"Thank you, no."

"Coffee, perhaps?"

"It's rather late for coffee..." Edward answered bluntly.

The waiter appeared to be confused about Edward's sudden change into this gloomy, monosyllabic patron but however shocked, that did not come across his pleasant tone.

"Shall I prepare your check then?"

"That will be fine."

I did my best to hide my apprehension at his abrupt desire to cut the evening short, but like everything else, it did not fail to escape his notice.

"I have other plans for dessert...," he said simply yet ominously, watching me intently. I instantly recognized one of his innuendos used back home; my mouth went dry and I suddenly needed to swallow the lump in my throat. No pointed look, no fleeting touch, not even an attempt at a more seductive timbre; only his eyes, dark and merciless, boring into mine. Still, my body reacted and a well-trained, spontaneous reflex stepped in; I felt my cheeks flush and my breathing quicken. He played me as skillfully as ever.

The waiter was quick. Edward thanked him for the excellent service and sent his compliments to the chef. It was understood that he also left him a lavish tip. It was not long at all before Edward was standing behind me, pulling out my chair. He followed closely as we exited the restaurant, his hand resting again lightly at the base of my spine, irradiating that delicious, forbidden heat again. He held the door for me, his cold smile polite but his eyes mocking.

I headed for the parking outside, but I suddenly felt his hand grabbing my elbow, as he diverted my course towards an elevator.

"Where are we going, Edward?"

"Up, to my room, isn't that obvious, Isabella?" His voice was unyielding, steely, and cold. He did not even turn his head to look at me and a wave of dread began to knot my stomach. Panic seized me and I stubbornly stopped on the spot, refusing to go any further.

"But Angela is expecting me..." I whined, trying to prevent him from pulling me ahead.

He stopped abruptly and I could tell he was openly enraged by now. I never-ever saw him in such a state. I was frightened, in earnest; the hair on my forearms rose and pressed against my sleeves.

"Ms. Weber is well informed about your whereabouts, Isabella... Hadn't I done that, she would still have not expected you back tonight, my dear, because it is only an indication of common sense for a woman to share her husband's hotel room instead of her friend's tiny apartment. I have no more to say on the matter and I will not hear anything else from you. We have more important things to talk about. Now, start moving, please, and stop being difficult. Is not like you to create a scene in a hotel lobby and I will not tolerate one. It seems that I might just reach the limits of my patience this evening. I'm sure you can perceive that."

He was glaring down at me, his pitch-black eyes full of vehemence. I lowered my eyes and struggled, for a thousandth time that evening, to swallow my tears.

"After you, Isabella..." He indicated the awaiting elevator. "I'm dying to be finally alone with you," he muttered under his breath as I reluctantly passed by him to step inside.

I heard him growl before the doors of the elevator were fully closed and he next grabbed my wrist and bent it backwards forcing me to turn and look at him. What I saw was his face twisted in unleashed, devastating rage. His hand shot out and grabbed hold of my hair, pulling my head back.

"What kind of wicked game are you playing, Isabella? He grimaced, sucking air between his teeth. "Why are you looking at me with this bewildered expression that drove me insane all evening?"

He twisted my hair more tightly around his fingers, disrupting my French twist and jerked me back even further. Again, his lips were merely inches from mine.

"I've had this question on my tongue all day long and I cannot hold it anymore. Why did you leave me?" he growled between gritted teeth, his shoulders quivering in not so carefully controlled anger. I knew the power hidden in the muscles underneath that finely tailored jacket. I stared at him riveted by shock. He released a string of surprisingly colorful expletives, pulling my hair so hard that it hurt and an instinctive whimper of pain escaped my lips. With a roaring struggle for breath, as if all the air were being squeezed from his lungs, he bellowed again, his other fist forcefully hitting the elevator wall just above my head.

"Damn you, woman, answer me! Why did you leave me?"

My heart did a somersault only to resume immediately an irregular rhythm. My ears started to ring and the much-too-familiar weakness and nausea hit again; I felt suddenly very warm, yet cold and clammy sweat appeared on the surface of my skin. However, I had no time to complain about such little grievance because I was slipping, slipping into invading blackness so perfect, it was like the universe before creation. Whether I was falling back into non-existence or deep into the hell's blackest hole, among the damned, it was of no relevance. As long as that put an end to my torment, I gladly abandoned myself to that tender, tentacular embrace.

**Thanks for reading.**


	8. Chapter 8

_**"I... **_

_**I who have nothing..."**_

_(Passionate song, isn't it?)_

My eyes snapped open and for a few seconds I blinked confused in semi-obscurity. I tried to determine were I was and cautiously glanced around. My surroundings were bathed in a pale light coming from everywhere and nowhere, a sort of unnatural glow. _L'eclairage urbain_ ? Moonlight? The midnight sun? Who knew. Any explanation was possible. It was, after all, night in Sweden...

Poor as it was, that radiance still allowed me to see that I was lying on a bed in what I guessed it must be Edward's hotel room. I had no recollection whatsoever of entering this room, or climbing into the bed, so I must have fainted in the elevator. Of course, I could be counted on swooning in the most inappropriate moment.

Once I regained a clear head, the horrid memories of the latest events vividly resurfaced; my reckless decision to go out with Jake...Edward's appearance...his hurtful and cold demeanor. Edward's room... His name made me cringe and the recollection of the elevator scene hit me with a terrible force. Disordered thoughts started to whirl inside my head. I felt apprehensive, wary and intrigued by his confusing behavior. A bit scared... I did not believe in earnest that he would hurt me. At least not physically. Yet, his rage had felt like a burning knot in my stomach.

Since Edward never allowed himself to be angry or impatient in potentially embarrassing or socially difficult moments, I could only imagine that he had reached some breaking point. Which I caused. I breathed deeply trying to steady my heartbeat.

Simultaneously, a chill shivered my body and it was not caused by the hectic emotions I was feeling. I was plainly cold. I touched my cool thigh and then looked at myself in disbelief. Was I? Oh, dear God, I was naked to my bra and panties. I inhaled sharply. Edward must have removed my dress... It was such an odd, odd thing to do... Why had he done it? To keep my dress from wrinkling? It was ridiculous... To see me undressed? That was even more ridiculous... To expose me, to put me in an uncomfortable posture?

That hypothesis was more probable but of a sudden, I felt I had no time to question his motives. I realized he must have picked me up and carried me to this room, and the thought of being held in his arms, cradled within his strong arms, close to his chest, the picture of him taking off my clothes sent once again an involuntary twist of desire trough my flesh, making me faint with longing. I'd been hungering for his affection, for his touch for a long, lonely time. How I wished I were conscious at the time! I was sure that my overused memories had nothing on the real him. A faint whisper of unease and regret escaped my lips, echoing in the dark.

"Good to get you back, Isabella!"

His gentle voice came from the far corner of the room, startling me. His voice that I dreamed every night of hearing... Steel and velvet altogether... Poison ivy honey... I tried to focus my sight in order to decipher where he was and I finally saw him, a dark form sitting in an armchair, motionless as if he were carved from marble, in a small alcove by the window.

"Edward?" My voice was, as so often lately, rough-edged yet faint.

A pause.

"Yes, love. Who else?" he queried softly from the darkness.

Icily. Condescending. Still. Obviously, nothing had changed and I thought for a second that oblivion was a wonderful thing, sometimes. He seemed calmer though, all his rage now safely bottled away beyond surface. The tie he'd worn earlier disappeared but he still wore his pants and his white Oxford shirt unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing the lean, tensile strength of his unusual little tanned forearms. I watched him greedily again in silence and swallowed with some difficulty.

"Very nice lingerie, Isabella. Exquisite."

His dry remark caught me completely unprepared.

"It is so diaphanous...quite appropriate to make a man go wild, I would say," he added in an undertone. As if musing on to himself some neutral subject. I could see now where he was going at with his observations. I gathered patience along with a deep breath. His voice rose a bit with the next inquiry.

"Was your intention to show it to that pathetic excuse of a man? Did you think he could handle it, seeing you like that?"

I was hurt by his assumption as I was hurt by his behavior in his entirety. My feeble and unreasonable belief that his anger was a positive sign was fading rapidly like a guttering candle flame.

"If he had known, that ardent young man would surely have been grateful..." he muttered sourly. "I mean, the thought of a lady as yourself dressing down to her..._finest_ details with her gentleman in her mind is a most pleasing idea. _I_ would be flattered."

Something in his voice was not quite right. It was hard, dripping with sarcasm, yet he sounded bizarre, his words were altered, here and there almost unintelligible.

"Edward, have you been drinking?" I mildly queried. My voice was still rough. I tried to clear my throat quietly.

Another pause.

"Yes, love. I am as drunk as a lord. And believe me, obtaining a bottle of decent liquor at this hour, in this hotel, in this country was a rather difficult task to accomplish. I had to be...very persuasive. In addition, very generous, too. That goes without saying."

For a few beats, no one spoke. I doubted he was as drunk as he so suggestively had described it, since Edward never allowed himself to lose control. His coolness and his composure, especially in trying circumstances were deeply impressive, his actions and speech usually tempered with a dispassionate calm and tranquility. He was the embodiment of _sang froid_. _"Except for tonight..."_

"It is atypical for you to get drunk..." I inanely whispered next.

A snort.

"And why shouldn't I, my dear? It is not so often that one has the opportunity to celebrate the reuniting with one's alienated spouse, now, is it? The event required an appropriate gala but since we are here, in this foreign country, getting drunk was the next best thing."

"Edward, please stop tormenting me," I murmured. I moved awkwardly an inch or two in the bed and felt the cold, barren sheets. I was ashamed by my condition, lying almost naked, facing his attacks with nothing to defend or to cover, feeling vulnerable and exposed right down to my soul. I could hardly contain my indignation. Somehow, changing my position, hiding under the sheets seemed like a weak gesture, that would turn me into an even grater coward; I imagined that only to be bringing further mockery from him.

The entire image in itself - me, on the bed, half-naked, he, inquisitorial, on the chair - held an illogical, weird dimension, as if we were characters acting in an absurd play. That peculiarly tender blue light surrounding us was now almost a turquoise; it added to the scene a kind of ill lyricism while gracefully attenuated the vibrant, almost tangible tension I felt in the air. He imperturbably continued his monologue, ignoring my plea.

"So here I am, presumably expecting to find you on sulks for being – however, unwillingly - left alone too much and what do I discover? My wife...dating!" He sounded mockingly incredulous. The ice in his glass clinked briskly while he took another sip.

"You shouldn't have gone around dating other men, Isabella..." His tone grew graver. "You never know when I'm watching, and you never know what I might do in a fit of jealousy." He managed yet another derisive sneer. "You never know..." Three simple words, but they were dripping with insinuation. "He wasn't man enough for you, my Isabella. You need a man. No boys for you..." he hissed, half under his breath, making understanding difficult.

I could hear him taking a long breath. Almost a sigh. When he spoke, however, his tone was pointedly neutral.

"Tell me, Isabella, were you planning on sleeping with him or am I overstating the obvious here?"

I struggled to speak again although none of my words seemed strong enough to penetrate beyond his avenger attitude. Still, keeping silent was not a wise alternative.

"No, Edward that is not the case... I imagine how that must look to you, but... "

"No?" he skeptically spat, interrupting my whiny attempt of argumentation. A coarse chuckle of laughter escaped him as he inhaled. "No." he said again after a second, sitting back with his arms on the arms of the chair. He made it look like a throne. He sat his glass very carefully on the edge of the small table near him; abruptly he was on his feet. In a flash, he was by the bed, kneeling on it. He next leaned down over me until his breath brushed my lips, pressing with his hands both of my shoulders into the mattress.

"That already happened, didn't it?"

My heart skipped a beat and my nerves rattled by his hard-edged, whisky-rough voice while his anger flowed over me like an electric current. I tried to say 'no' but my tongue would not work. My stomach lurched and tremors started to wreck my body. He stood there immobile, as still as death itself waiting for my answer. When he spoke again, breathing over my face, his voice was low, a growl in the back of his throat. His eyes narrowed at me, though his pupils were dancing.

"Tell me, Isabella has he encroached my property? Has that dickhead motherfucker claimed what is mine?"

While asking his feral questions, he moved his face across mine, across my neck, across my confined breasts without touching me, sniffing around as if he were searching Jake's smell on me. His dark eyes were wild and menacing, smoldering in the dark with promises and power. The air around me suddenly thickened with his delicious scent and my pulse thudded. Heat flushed my core, like a lover's sly caress. His tone lowered even more to a guttural rumble.

"Has that other man spilled himself inside you, Isabella? Has he profaned my own, personal and most sacred shrine? Those last words came through clenched teeth.

Outrage welled up in me and my fingers knotted in the linen sheet. Each of his sentences was a well-placed verbal stab to my heart, but although mean, his questions were awakening dark excitement deep in my starving body.

"No, Edward, he hasn't..." I helplessly writhed _under his hold_. My voice, husked, held an edge of panic. His eyes, piercing mine, gave away nothing yet demanded everything. As if trying to pull out my thoughts.

"You should have denied it quicker than that," he sentenced and brusquely let me loose. He rose smoothly and strode to the window, where he peered into the night, moonlight outlining his tall form. I watched him: the shirt tightened across the broad of his back when he combed tense fingers through his hair; no amount of brushing could ever make it obey. My gaze lingered on him, on the breadth of his shoulders, as he stayed there extraordinarily still and silent, rigid yet graceful as a dancer. For a long moment, he said nothing then slowly began:

"It has been said that we don't have a choice in what happens to us, that our choice lies in how we respond to it. I always believed that it is poor form to show by your gestures, grimaces and language that you are infuriated by some situation that is entirely beyond your control; but it seems I cannot help myself in this...particular circumstance. I'm experiencing tonight the complete spectrum of betrayal-induced sentiments, in all their glorious intensity. All inside of me feels like a flurry of unconstructive commotion: negative thoughts, negative feelings, negative images."

He was gradually reprising the same deliberate dramatic intonation used earlier and seemed again infinitely calm, infinitely patient, so much in contrast with the content of his words.

"First phase: emotional masochism. The overwhelming need to know more...to know everything, even if that kills you...where, when, how many times," he uttered in a low voice. As if his throat were sore. "The more you know, the more it hurts but you can't stop." Then went on, louder:

"Second phase: displacement; the tendency to blame the other man." His tone was detached, almost clinical, like a teacher's describing the stages of a phenomenon, like a doctor's establishing a diagnosis. I flushed with annoyance yet no words came out.

"I bet he played his cards just right...he was friendly, polite... he asked you only the appropriate questions...surely he made you laugh with some innocent, silly jokes," he added almost too low for me to hear.

"Phase three: sexual insecurity..." He turned to look at me, interrupting my ogling and added louder, with a snort: "That's a good one. He must be far more adept and better equipped than I am for him to engage your... _interest_ so deeply."

He took the few steps separating him from the bed in the blink of an eye, seized my shoulders, leaned above me and placed his face again only inches from mine. He was smiling, a cold, overconfident smile but seemed far from amused. "Tell me, love...was he better than I?" His smile became a conceited sneer. A glint of sharp white teeth in the dark. "Was he able to satisfy you as thoroughly and utterly complete as I, myself have done until recently?"

This time, he didn't expect my reply. He let go of me quickly, almost hastily, as if in the following second my skin would have burned him.

"Nothing happened, Edward!" I shrieked in despair, nearly screaming at him. I half rose propping up in my elbow and watched him pacing up and back at the feet of the bed with his hands clasped behind his back. He laughed bitterly though, ignoring my reaction, and continued in the same key.

"Of course not. Phase four: complete refusal to believe anything your partner says or has said over the time." Pressure built on inside of me from his cool, detached reasoning, as though I sank through water, deeper and deeper. He went on.

"Phase five: the thirst for vengeance; sexual revenge against the woman, physical revenge against the man." His voice trailed off and he paced the lengths of the room twice before stopping to glare at me. "Yes, even if it is premature as you claim, that _man_ - and I use the term with some reluctance - must be dealt with...decisively." A sardonic smile flourished again on his flawless lips, his expression murderously angry. He meant it to be ominous and it was. Enough to make me shiver. My skin tingled as if an icy wind were blowing. Foolishly, futilely, I tried a rescue attempt.

"Jake has nothing to do with us, Edward. It's not his fault. If you must blame someone, blame me..." My voice took on an unintended plaintive edge.

He sniffed disdainfully. "All in due course, my dear."

Several responses occurred to me, but I discarded them all, giving Edward sufficient time to continue with his deconstruction.

"Phase six: the need to claim her back, to brand her as your own. Something Neanderthal and primal. Hmmm... Indeed, your latest actions appear to arouse the primitive urge to mark one's territory," he observed, studiously neutral. For a moment, he sat still meeting my eyes with a long, steady look.

In a gliding, flowing movement, he pounced on me once again, forcing me to lie back down on the bed. Only this time he lied himself on top of me, settling his entire weight on my body, trapping me beneath him. Strong hands grasped my wrists, trapping them above my head, pulling strands of my hair in their grip. Again, a switch in his tone. Cold iron suddenly turned to mocking, honeyed ice. "Do I need to mark you again as mine, love?" he asked in his silken, irresistible voice. "Have you forgotten to whom do you belong?"

His words were alluring, his scent was alluring... I secretly, greedily welcomed that familiar, sweet weight of his body on mine that I'd missed so much; its recognition sent a wave of delight flowing through every cell of my body, increasing my need for him to the point of near desperation.

"Why are you gasping, Isabella? Is there anything you want? Is there maybe something you... _need_? I can tell you are aroused... I could see it in your eyes all evening long. I could smell it even from across the room...that sweet, treacherous scent that has been driving me wild, filling my lungs, scorching my throat, tormenting me... I must confess...it's getting harder and harder by the second to resist it..."

His voice, smooth and low in pitch, made me flush, irrational warmth filling me. He was well aware that I was more than fascinated by his acute sense of smell. His capacity to detect even the weakest trace of my arousal never failed to astonish me. And to arouse me even more... My breath dragged away, raw, weakening my voice to a whisper.

"Please, Edward..."

"Please what, my beautiful wife? What do you want? Do you want _me_?"

He spoke those last words directly into my ear and his voice sounded so husky now, laced with unfeigned desire. His breath was like a line of fire along my neck and sent goose bumps on my skin. It made me shiver and I involuntarily arched up into him, imploring him nonverbally, trying to bring my body closer to his, trying to feel him as near as possible, as if no closeness could ever suffice.

The smell of his cologne caressed my skin. His opened shirt allowed me to feel the unusual coldness of his torso, his steel abdomen pressed against mine, and a moan escaped my lips before I could think to stop it - not that I believed any effort to do so might have proven successful. That provoked a short chuckle and he pressed his advantage, leaning in and nuzzling my hair aside, his tongue flicking into my ear. "Do... you... want... me... to... fuck... you, love?" His sultry whisper was pure seduction.

I wanted to scream 'yes', I wanted to beg him, I wanted to do something, anything to restore our intimacy. I'd missed him so much, and this insane, enormous, maddening need for him had been holding down my entire being for so long... My lips parted on their own volition and another moan slipped out. Deeper, more primal, a raw, uncensored expression of my craving for him. In itself a confession. Craving mixed in with desire. He cupped my jaw with the palm of his free hand and his fingers settled against the back of my neck, forcing my chin up. I could feel my frantic pulse throbbing wilder still against his hand. His icy thumb began lazily circling my lips in a teasing yet gentle stroke that made me tremble while he stared intently into my eyes with blazing intensity. His finger felt smooth and silky, and unconsciously I wet my lips, causing the tip of my tongue to touch his skin. That sent a violent ripple of arousal to shudder down my spine.

"Just say the word, Isabella..." he coaxed in a hypnotic, tempting whisper, resembling an incantation. "Say it and I'll do it willingly...to your hard and – if my memory serves me right - noisy completion." His eyes could have set water aflame and I gleefully recognized that look. It was hunger. A flare of wild, purest desire. For me.

"Yes." I said breathlessly.

I would have bitten my tongue off before saying that single, simple, infamous word but it had slipped out before I knew. Simultaneously the appalling realization that he would use such an admission to take me into derision even more rose in a tiny corner in the back of my mind. I'd anew showed my weakness, I'd exposed myself further to his relentless attacks. I tried to choke back the wild, impending sobs that were building in my throat. My wide eyes stared up into his in a silent begging and I felt them glistening with unshed tears.

Instead of laughing at me, unexpectedly, he kissed me.

He captured my mouth fiercely, hungrily, absorbing my breath, devouring it with a passion that made me weak. Panic was swiftly replaced by pleasure as I felt his lips seeking, claiming, demanding... It was more like a voracious, urgent bite as he savagely sipped and suckled each of my lips at a time. His cleverly persistent tongue, sliding moistly between my lips, found mine and began a deep, delirious dance, darting repeatedly in and out of my mouth in so erotic a cadence that a third continuous, needy moan elicited from my throat. Each thrust of his tongue – his delectable taste combined with whisky - made me rock beneath him, made me shudder in frissons of sexual charge. Yet again, and again, hard, deep, burning, unyielding.

My bones were melting under the sweet domination of his mouth, my blood was boiling in my veins and I returned the kiss with all that growing fire in my soul. Our tongues mingled, famished. He felt so good...pressed heavy on me, thigh on thigh, chest on breast, breath mixed with breath, heart pounding on heart.

At some point, he'd released my wrists so I clutched his shoulders for support, tightly gripping his shirt. I was already clinging to him, sinking my fingers through his hair, trying to pull him closer still when suddenly he sucked on my tongue; whatever reason was left to me fled. I could not restrain myself anymore. I wanted more of him, all of him. I managed to free one of my legs from underneath him and eagerly, instinctively wrapped it around his thigh in a serpent-like motion. My hands moved underneath his shirt and spread over the muscled planes of his back, exploring the strength of his biceps, absorbing the firmness of his bared chest. His skin, more glass than ivory, felt very cold against my burning palms. In what I'd hoped to be a furtive movement, I eased one of my hands down, reaching for the waistband of his pants.

Even in the midst of my need, I could sense his instant reticence. He stiffened; his shoulders tensed and grabbed my descending hand holding it still against his heaving chest. Simultaneously, he tore his mouth away from mine, leaving my lips trembling, deliciously swollen.

Both our breaths, erratic and shallow were echoing in the room; however, he collected himself far too quickly. Without hesitation, he untangled himself easily from my embrace, sprang to his feet and oppressively turned his back at me. I thought I heard him cursing under his breath. He stood still for a moment and somehow that stillness seemed to require some physical effort; next he took a step or two, a little too fast perhaps, distancing from the bed. His fists tightened convulsively until his knuckles cracked. It was as if he were struggling with himself. When he spoke at last, his words were winter cold and anvil hard.

"So," he concluded dryly in a mocking tone with his back still at me, "...do you want me to finish what that lame boy could not even start?"

**I borrowed for this chapter a few lines from one of the most brilliant scripts ever written. It blew my mind at the time. Still does. So please, don't call it a theft. Just an expression of my deepest admiration for Jimmy McGovern. I wish I were that clever...**

**I want to thank sincerely to all of you who kept reviewing, although this seemed abandoned. My gratitude goes especially to Viltsuuh, for the very kind encouragement and for recommending this story.**

**Thank you for reading!**


	9. Chapter 9

**I own nothing but a quiet obsession that has finally begun to recede. How about yours?**

I struggled for a moment to gather my senses, so easily scattered by his touch. The swelled up emotion inside my soul was so overwhelming that I couldn't think, couldn't function. But soon enough cold humiliation washed over me, disheartening like an icy wave, spoiling the glorious sensation of his caress. I despaired... I felt stupid. Stupid and weak. So weak for still wanting this marriage, for still desperately wanting this man.

Anger and arousal battled for the upper hand for several long moments. I wanted to scream, to claw his face, to climb onto him and take what my body craved. I sat on the soft bed, on my knees, my chest heaving. The chill was well forgotten; frustrated desire was radiating off me like sultry summer heat. Eventually, I managed to speak.

"You, insufferably arrogant, obnoxious...man!" My voice squeaked but I swallowed my fear and fought for control, vainly refusing to show any of my swiftly developing panic. Not anymore. I climbed off the bed with wobbly knees, and I took a step towards him, heart thudding in my chest. My apprehension about my standing half-naked in front of him while he was still fully clothed seemed to have vanished.

"I've never imagined you could be like this! So unmerciful, so mean and vile..." I furiously charged my revolt at his back. I was still breathing heavily, my voice much too weak to be as imposing as I wished it to be. His stillness was strangely menacing. It gave me the feeling of a wild beast prepared to jump and I could hear his slow breathing despite my own faltering pulse pounding in my ears.

"Nor have I known you being interested in boy toys," he snapped back, half turning his head to throw me a stern look over his shoulder.

Love, anger and lust were still swirling together in a volatile mixture and I did not quite know how to react. I was undecided whether indignantly to assert my innocence again or to break out into violent accusations.

"I can choose to spend my time with whomever I want, Edward, that's my own affair and I think it's hypocritical of you to reproach me that as long as you're doing it yourself! You don't own me!"

Sparks of rage danced in Edward's darkened gaze as he turned. He approached me in the same stealthy, noiseless manner of his that sometimes touched the ghastliness of the supernatural. Grabbing hold of my shoulders, he towered above me and uttered softly yet emphatically, in sarcastic amazement:

"Oh, really?"

He drifted closer, and his eyes flashed, daring me. His mouth intently brushed mine, barely a touch but still there, breathing onto my lips.

"Is that so?" Are you absolutely convinced about that?" he whispered wickedly and his lips hovered again over mine for a heart-stopping instant.

That soft, mellifluous voice dripping honey into my ear did its magic again. Fury rippled my lust harder and I made no effort to bring it under control this time. Helpless and dizzy, I leaned into him, on fire for his kiss, accepting his impending victory. My arms hungrily encircled his neck and, seizing two handfuls of his hair, I pulled his mouth down to me and kissed him.

The heat was back. The sweet ache was back even sharper than before and I clutched his hair even tighter, holding him fast. The rasp of the bra fabric against my nipples was almost painfully acute and it made me want to breathe deeper, enough to make the material covering my breasts press against the hard, muscular contours of his chest. I sank against him.

It took me a while to acknowledge his stillness. Long enough to be humiliating. He was unresponsive, his lips remained cool and still, unyielding...he wasn't kissing me back. I stopped, embarrassed and felt myself blush furiously. I slipped away from him to hide the tears that suddenly filled my eyes. Away from his hard body my flesh craved. I covered my face with my hands that were trembling now more with fury than desire, and turned away. I felt absurdly naked, stripped of all my emotional protection, more exposed than any other time during that terrible night.

He was playing with me. He was toying with me like a predator with his victim. Like a big cat with his helpless, condemned prey that was alive still but not for long. The play in itself had obviously, no other purpose than to amuse him, to satisfy a secret, wicked, newfound cruelty. I was tiring of his psychological game, exhausted by that endless contest of no use. The influence of emotional stress can damage one's sanity and I felt sometimes that for me, such outcome was just around the corner.

He snorted derisively. "You were saying?"

I spun around to face him, noting the smug satisfaction in his dark eyes. The shadow of a smile flickered on his lips. I stared back at him warily, angrily.

"Stop mocking me!"

"There's no other response for such pathetic behavior!"

"Oh, I'm pathetic alright, for putting up with you and your derisiveness! What have I ever done to you, Edward to deserve such disrespectful treatment? To make you treat me like this? Why are you hurting me?" I whispered sourly.

"Your little inquiry about the reasons behind my comportment brings us back to the subject at hand..." he bluntly cut me off, unimpressed with my seemingly rhetorical questions. "I had asked you something right before you so conveniently passed out... and I am still very interested in learning your answer."

He folded his arms across his chest with aggrandized serenity, watching me with an impassive expression. His self-control was so absolute that neither his posture nor his face betrayed any hint of his thoughts.

"Tell me."

It was clear he wanted words, direct and confrontational, from me. However, I refused to comply so quickly. After all, he had been torturing me with his sardonic remarks ever since his arrival. Freely asking questions and expecting a response back but giving little or no self-disclosure. It was a nothing but a silly delay though.

"Tell you what?"

His eyes darkened with a faint streak of impatience. "Isabella..." he snarled in warning, pushing the last syllable up a notch to convey caution, "...enough stalling. Tell me what happened. Why did you leave?" The question was deceptively calm, almost idle. "I certainly hope you have much more of a satisfying explanation than getting bored or feeling lonely."

Drawing in a breath, I found it within myself to speak again in tardive, perhaps useless defiance. "Omniscient as you seem to be, I would have thought you knew already the answer to your own question... Or at least had some sort of an idea...a hint in the background of your mind..."

To retreat as he paced closer would have been the same as admitting to being intimidated.

"Do I look like I have any tolerance left for this?" he whispered fiercely.

I swallowed hard. The time had come.

"I trusted my letter to be self-explanatory, Edward..." was my weak, yet stable reply.

Even by moonlight, I could see his frown as he studied me.

"What letter?" he asked curtly.

"The one I left for you at home explaining the reasons of my departure..." I said, a good more calmly than I felt.

"Oh, that's interesting... A letter..." he mused mockingly as if not certain whether to believe me.

He turned and took lazily a few steps, grabbed his glass and refilled it. His motion drew my eyes to his tempting body, the glimpse of smooth, naked skin where his shirt fell open making my palms itch, yearning again for the hardness of his chest. I remembered the feeling of those tight curves of muscle, slippery with his rich-smelling male sweat during our lovemaking and my mind drifted for a moment. He waited for me to catch his eye, and then smiled faintly, wickedly amused, as if he were aware of my thinking. My hungry gaze fixed on his lips, watching them move.

"I will admit to being intrigued, Isabella. Because, you see... I've found an empty, sad home with a chill and desolate air, neat as a morgue, and of course, with no sign of my loving and devoted wife who used to spoil me rotten; but alas!" He took a sip to punctuate his words. "No letter."

"You abused my devotion..." I murmured to myself. It was a frail, breathy whisper but as I went on, my voice became stronger. And edged with distrust.

"I doubt that you could have missed it, Edward... It was in plain sight..."

He glowered, clearly unmoved. "I've found nothing!"

Pretending not to have found the letter was a direction of the battle I had not taken into consideration.

"You have never lied to me before..." I whispered hoarsely.

"Neither have you..." he said significantly. His face was set and stern yet he laughed darkly. "Still, here you are! A wanton woman in disguise preying on over-zealous youngsters! Isabella, you should be realistic for a change. Did you honestly believe he thought for one moment he had a chance with you?"

"For the umpteenth time, Edward, nothing happened between Jack and me! I had no intention to allow anything to happen! I didn't do anything wrong!"

"You deserted me!" His voice unexpectedly thundered in the room.

"You deserted me first!" I yelled back, unable to restrain myself anymore.

A dark chuckle.

"Since when working sixteen to twenty hours per day qualifies as leaving someone, my dear?"

I neared him and tilted my chin up, eyes locking squarely with his. My blood throbbed hard and defiance seared my heart. I was ready to confront him. Heatedly.

"Since you also are using the aforementioned interval to fuck another woman!" I emphasized, mouth tight and voice bitter.

A few long heartbeats of silence. He held my stare, unflinchingly.

"What the hell are you talking about? What gave you that ridiculous idea?"

I took a measured breath, feeling suddenly calmer. So he was going to deny everything. How disappointing! I cast him a curious but repulsed stare.

"You are above playing innocent, Edward. This is truly sordid, it is not who you are. Do you think I would make such a serious accusation as this without unanswerable reasons for doing so? Without the necessary evidence?"

He took a step closer, face cold as midwinter. "What the hell do you mean? What evidence?"

"Come on, Edward!"

"Start. Talking!" he managed to command between gritted teeth.

"From the grace of a generous stranger I received a photo picturing you and a beautiful woman in a very...intimate position. It was somewhat beautiful. Also quite...enlightening."

Incredulity twisted his features. There was a moment of silence before he stated: "That is ridiculous!"

In response to his reaction, distrust swelled in me, bitter and vile. In my chest, the old pain clenched like a fist and again, I was burning inside. Resentment rose nauseatingly in my throat, surging back at full force and a cascade of words erupted from my lips, disjointed yet unstoppable.

"Are you giving _me _lectures about how my alleged deception makes you feel? I would not presume to instruct you on any subject, Edward, but let me tell you this: in this matter, I could teach you a thing or two. Do you think I don't know how it feels? How you feel sick inside when you think about it? How you cannot breathe properly, as if you were hit by a ton of bricks... Oh, believe me, Edward, I do know... Emotional masochism, you're saying? Do you have any idea how it feels to miss hearing you breathe at night and at the same time picturing you lying satisfied or peacefully asleep beside your mistress? Unable to stop from creating tortuous mental images that were haunting me night and day... Negative emotions? How about feeling small and unworthy? How about constant obsessive thoughts, an incessant chatter going on in my mind. On and on it went until I couldn't discern reality from fantasy... truth from illusion..."

I strode to the window and, in a strangled voice, went on, as I was spiraling down again into the abyss of my own torment. All those evoked sentiments overwhelming me again, crushing me once more under their leviathan burden. I could vividly feel again that raw grief, like being ripped by claws. A sensation impossible to put into words.

"Rage, uncertainty, shock, fear, pain, depression, shame, confusion, hopelessness, mistrust, anxiety, they all were my constant companions! They were insidious, all-consuming and very, very nasty. And that was only the emotional part. The physical reactions were not a walk in the park either! I was shaky, nauseous, I had problems sleeping and eating, I was unable to think clearly. I blamed myself, so I developed self-esteem issues. I kept thinking I was obviously, not young enough, not beautiful enough or not smart enough for you! I believed I was lacking in some fundamental way and that was killing me. That was tearing me apart. I learned that image by heart! I watched it for hours, unwillingly comparing myself with that other woman. I close my eyes and I see it! I open my eyes and I see it!"

The last sentences were almost shouted as I was mentally struggling to seal back again my own Pandora's Box. I did not have the will or the strength to elaborate further. I didn't think there was much left to say or to clarify. I could hear myself sounding petulant, yet my bitter wails and caustic words seemed feeble and unconvincing. Shaking my head to rid myself of that painful infliction, I spun to face him, but he'd furthered himself from me, just a silhouette in the dark, his face delineated by harsh shadows that were making impossible for me to read his expression.

For whatever reason, that enraged me. Memories of his cynical, hurtful words returned like a slap in my face. The absolute arrogance in his remarks, the dominance and utter, contemptible confidence he displayed raked over my pride like nails on a chalkboard.

"I'm not the betrayer here! I haven't done anything to be ashamed of! And in spite of all this, I still get to be the one despised for something I didn't do! What am I to you? How dare you speak to me like that? How dare you?"

His eerie voice, coming calmly from the darkness with his next question, was addictive like toxic glue.

"Do you love me still?"

"Do I love you still?" I cried incredulously, my voice almost suffocated with righteous indignation. "This is unbelievable! Is that what you came here for? A stroke to your ego? Yes, I love you! You and nobody else but you! I want no other man but you! Do you hear me? Do you? Are you satisfied now? Are you feeling triumphant? Oh, Edward, by all means, you should! The humble, quiet little wife you married just for being malleable stupidly continues to love you regardless of your actions! Regardless of your cruel insults!"

My voice broke and I went quiet. I was out of breath and felt so tired. So empty. Depleted... I stared at him, trying to pierce the veil of darkness and see his features, but his face was barely distinguishable and blurred even more by my tears.

I had done it. Played all my cards. I'd revealed to him my vulnerability. My pain. My love. I'd stripped my soul bare and I had no more aces up my sleeve. I had no more control over this dispute than I had over my own body whenever he touched me. My lips were quivering and the held tears spilled over. Blinking them away, I looked out through the window again at the beautifully lit city, my gaze noticing none of its splendor.

I had hoped for consolation and distraction in my finally expressed anger, and it had vaguely succeeded while it lasted, but now that the confrontation was close to an end, my anxiety came creeping back. I did not feel redeemed. Nor was I relieved. I drew a deep, uneven breath and tried to make my voice composed but it was thick with tears.

"So you see, Edward, false accusations can just as easily ruin a relationship as infidelity can..." I tremulously concluded in a nearly unintelligible whisper that I knew he would catch. I turned around again to him, expecting, hoping, at least for this extraordinary once, to witness the rare spectacle of my husband agitated.

He paced the room towards me and as he advanced, his dark eyes seemed to scorch the floor before him. Half of his face was in shadow, but the scarce light gleamed on the slant of one high, chiseled cheekbone, revealed the strong cut of his jaw, played along a mouth that was as clearly defined as that of an ancient Renaissance statue.

He stepped closer and half-raised his hand. For a moment, I thought he might touch my face; if he did, I didn't know whether I would weep or scream or order him to leave me. Or just abandon myself with a whimper of relief to the shelter of his arms.

He didn't though. His movement stopped abruptly midway and his arm fell limp at his side. He seemed unwilling to make any comforting gesture. "_Why would he_?" I dryly thought. Saddened, I averted my gaze from him.

"Look at me. Isabella, look at me!" He commanded in an utterly restrained voice and all that I could do was to turn my glance once more on him, as he requested.

"None of it is true!" His tone was carefully calm, almost too controlled but I could sense the extreme tension in his body.

"Am I supposed to pretend to believe you?"

"You should believe it, because is the truth." The words were flat as a wooden board but his eyes burned as hot as molten lead. Dark as the black of night staring back at me silently, unblinkingly.

"Where is the photo? I need to see it," he demanded a second later.

"I left it at home near my letter, for you to find...which you obviously haven't..." I said, a stifle of irony just there. He quickly answered back, unabashed.

"Obviously. Give me more details!" he asked, keen as a razor. It was a prompt, implacable demand, his mouth clear-cut and stern.

Reluctantly, I complied, mesmerized again into obeying his will that so effortlessly overpowered mine. I flashed on that burning mental image and I described it to him the best I could.

He listened attentively and no change in his expression showed that what I said affected him. He remained observant, cunning, and quiet, digesting the information, perhaps weighing it for truth. Slowly, his face firmed. The shock-if it had been any-of my accusations seemed worn off; he was once again restrained. Self-possessed, self-assured, as ever.

"Listen to me, and listen to me good, 'cause I'm not going to say this twice. I am man enough not to hide behind my finger. If I were having an affair, we would not be having this conversation right now. The whole idea is insane! I made a promise not to lie to you or intentionally mislead you. I took an oath the day I married you, Isabella and I have been living every day since abiding by that oath! Do you remember? What were my words to you?"

"What were they?" he insisted, eyes intent on me.

My lips felt dry and my throat hurt. "Till death do us part."

"I meant every word."

Keeping my voice firm took me some effort. "All things change in time..."

"I still do."

"I don't know what to believe anymore..." I spoke quietly and sounded unsure.

"Believe _me_," he laconically emphasized. His words rang true and that prospect caused a steady stream of contradictory thoughts flowing in my mind.

After a moment, he continued to admonish me, his voice perhaps slightly distorted. He sounded distant, bruised. "Why didn't you call me after you received your ... irrefutable proof?"

"I tried...several times...you were never there...it was always your assistant..." I weakly defended myself.

"You didn't try hard enough!" He suddenly raised his voice to its utmost and I gave a start. It was an ireful shout of heavy discontentment; his eyes were pure green fire.

"It may be so, Edward, but tell me this, how many times did you call _me_? How many?" A muscle clenched in his jaw at my riposte.

He breathed in deeply then exhaled, scrubbing a hand through his hair.

"I tried to protect you from the hell I was going through in Brazil. My main concern was your peace of mind. I tried to keep you pure, insouciant and free. An enclave; my private, ultimate refuge. After all, you are my prize, you are my treasure. You are that important to me!"

"Am I to infer that our current circumstances might serve as an illustration of your point? I mean...you've made it abundantly clear over the past several hours, just how important I am to you!"

He continued speaking as though he hadn't heard me but lowered his voice with a visible effort.

"So you received an anonymous envelope with an incriminatory picture of me and some woman. Rather convenient, wouldn't you say? Logic must prevail over emotion, my dear. Didn't you ask yourself who sent it? On what purpose? I am an exposed person, Isabella, a man with potential enemies. Any nut with a grudge could have faked a photo then had it delivered to you! Where was your faith in me, your husband? Why it was easier for you to believe a stupid image than to believe in our precious marriage vows?"

Again, for an instant, a somber frown of displeasure darkened his brow.

"There are things and occurrences in this world that are forever beyond our control..." he said, making his voice even. "However, you belonging to me is not one of them. Above and beyond all, you are my wife. I think that this sense of ownership provides an impetus for a man to protect, provide and empower what he feels is his. I am your husband. Therefore, you must be quite aware that you possess me as well. Nothing but death can change that. And perhaps not even that!"

He showed his teeth in a very white smile, though maybe it wasn't a smile at all.

"And where death may not succeed, do you think a boyish man would stand a chance? What were you trying to achieve dating Mr. Black? Huh? Paying me back? Returning me evil for evil? You couldn't resist this, this...need to take revenge on me, your despicable, cheating spouse?"

"Why do you keep returning to Jake, Edward?" I snapped. "Didn't you hear anything I said?"

"Because I am still immensely disturbed by what I've witnessed tonight! Seeing you two together! Hadn't I come, anything could have happened!" he bellowed, with an obstinate glint in his eyes. His following words came out more of a growl in his throat. "And yes, I did hear you. Every single word."

He studied my face for a long, silent moment**.**

"Your suffering is out of your own making, Isabella... It was childish to run from home," he harshly sentenced next. "And reckless... Was there nothing left of our marriage to protect? Worthy of fighting for? Hadn't you better get your facts straight before making absurd accusations?"

His voice was strained, low, and not quite steady but soon rising again to an angry roar.

"You should have come to me. Got on the first plane and come to me. You should have come to me God dammit instead of hiding here and playing doctor with little boys!

I waited for the echo of his words to fade before answering carefully, steadily. My voice scraped my throat, hoarse with the acute need to convince him.

"I left because I didn't want to make a fool of myself in front of your family. I did not want to make you look bad in front of _my_ family. I left because I tried to avoid staying inside, making excuses and wallowing in misery. I thought I get out here, meet new people, start some new hobby and survive through the worst. My interest in Jake was not romantic, Edward... he was just...'new people'... Please understand this".

It was a good enough answer. Almost. One answer in a sea of countless questions that were springing up like mushrooms after rain. It would have helped maybe, if he'd stopped answering questions with questions. Doors nightmarishly opening onto more doors.

I dared timidly, ambiguously to pose the most pressing question of all.

"How all this mess explains then?"

"I don't know." Three seconds ticked by before he added under his breath, "Yet." His tone was livid but his eyes were careful.

"How did you find me if my letter wasn't there?"

"I've been told I can be quite resourceful," he replied dryly, a slight frown drawing his eyebrows together. That frown meant a single, obvious thing. He had asked Charlie.

His tone discouraged for the moment my intention to question him further. Silence fell in the room and we just stood there in the semidarkness for a while. Edward seemed thoroughly unmoved by the long stretch of silence, his impassivity vaguely impressive. He was rigid, as aloof and impenetrable as ever, his stillness heavy with displeasure. When he moved brusquely, with the evident intention of leaving the room, my heart thumped in a sort of painful alarm.

"Where are you going?" I asked anxiously, in an agitated whisper.

"I need fresh air. To sober up..." he replied in a quiet, toneless voice, his eyes averted. He was still enraged, but it was the icy sort of rage, and he appeared to be in perfect control of himself.

He headed for the door and on his way, without stopping, grabbed his dress jacket from the armchair he'd been sitting. His movements were swift and tense though, as if he struggled to contain his temper, the raw, primal, animal male grace he displayed nearly stealing my breath.

He lingered a bit in the doorway, long enough to restore his clothing to order and without a single glance at me, off he went.

My heart sunk. I paced, or rather walked gingerly, to the other side of the room and, as my leg muscles dissolved to water, crumpled to the bed. Nausea burned in my throat once more and I leaned my forehead on my hands. I sat there, at the foot of the bed, full of doubt and self-reproach. Alone in the dark. Just me, the pain, and the thirst for him.

I idly noted that he had never once said that he loved me.

**Thank you for reading!**

_An inspiring song: Marlene Dietrich's expressive and sensual interpretation of "Déjeuner du Matin", the great poem by Jacques Prévert._

_That's how she must have felt after he left the room._


	10. Chapter 10

**I don't own anything, of course.**

Edward came out in the dim hallway, which was lit only with red exit signs, and just stood tense for a while. It had been such a transparent excuse for him to use but another second in that suffocating room and he would have become lost. Lost in anger, lost in desire. His body was still rigid, trembling with refrained arousal mingled with the snarling blaze of his jealousy.

He had wanted to ravish her, to lay her beneath him and sink himself in her, sink in her to oblivion. He still did.

The threat of that growing, out-of-control rush of sensations began to build inside him again. He ran his hand around the back of his neck and muttered a rancid curse heard God knows when. Looking down the long corridor, he opted for the stairs instead of the elevator. He had to move or his muscles would tear him apart in spasms. It had not been a complete lie. He needed air, space, motion to clear his mind, but not from alcohol. No, he needed to let out the madness from his eyes, from his breath, from his blood.

Edward always thought of himself as a man who could calmly and efficiently, do what was required in the moment, to keep potentially stressful interactions from affecting him to the point of irrationality. A man able to size up any situation and act appropriately. A confident and capable man, whose jaw was firm, whose word was law, whose intentions were not to be flouted. A strong man, in mind and soul and body.

Judging by his conduct tonight, he could not have been further from the truth in his self-appraisal.

Edward stepped outside the hotel, where his car was just being driven up. The valet parking handed him the car keys with an expressionless face. Just another guest keeping odd hours. Edward thanked him and found his voice still rough. Every muscle in his body still tight. The night was windy and cold, the kind of cold that makes you put your collar up and shove your hands in your pockets; there was a threat of rain.

Her scent still lingered inside the car, addictive, overwhelming and torturously tantalizing by its inner nature alone._ "Oh, sweet gods above have mercy!"_ It hit Edward hard and he inhaled it with the fervor and the thirst of a man coming upon a spring after hopeless ramble in the desert.

Remembering their short drive together did not helped him at all. It had been pure torture. He had felt her silent, dazed perusal and his skin had blistered under her gaze_. _His eyes had been on the road, but his attention painstakingly focused on her; he'd been acutely conscious of her every shift, of the slight rustling of her breathing, of the subtle, mesmeric scent of her body. Every second a struggle to prevent himself from looking at her.

Edward pinched the bridge of his nose then pressed hard the heels of his hands against his temples in a poor attempt to deflect the impending headache. He inhaled long and slowly and felt like swearing again.

Almost cautiously, he reached under his seat and pulled out the envelope left by his personal investigators. It was waiting for him at the front desk when he arrived at the hotel in the morning. He opened the envelope and quickly scanned again the single sheet. The information on Jacob Black was brief. Nothing usable, nothing compromising in his background or in his regular activities. He memorized the young man's address and calmly slid the sheet back into the envelope. The adjoined photographs were another matter entirely.

When he had first seen them, he was knocked off balance by the surge of jealousy that seared through him. He had wanted simply, primitively to roar his rage to the heavens.

Edward examined again the two people pictured in them. Bella and the boy, for he was nothing more than that. Seeing them again together only tore again the scabs off his unspeakable rage. He felt as if acid filled his veins. Unconsciously, he gritted his teeth and a fierce light glinted in his eyes. His now grim face was hard, almost brutal with his desire to hurt the boy. How much would he like to hit him with the thunder of his wrath! How sweet that would taste!

Edward studied the young man's face more closely, seeing laughter and enthusiasm and yes, interest. But had he any knowledge of how to handle the sensual treasure that the woman at his arm represented? Could he see the nuances in her large, hazel eyes, at times liquid and vivacious, at times avid, fascinated in a mask of serenity, or heavy and slumberous from consumed passion? Could he tell the meaning of that lovely trademark gesture of hers, her lower lip between her teeth, denoting nervousness, uncertainty yet sometimes marking the slight hesitation before uttering something resolute? Could he find her in the dark during erotic hide-and-seek with only the soft rustle of silk and her unique fragrance to guide him?

Of course not; what teenage boy could? Edward almost snorted out loud.

There was an easy familiarity between them in those pictures though, which bespoke a natural friendship. It was clear that they liked each other and were comfortable together. The boy had treated her as a friend, had let her relax, and she had had fun. His grip on the edge of those glossy papers tightened into an iron clad and that sour sensation seeped again through him like poisonous venom. Edward was conscious of it; it was as if he were bleeding.

He had come so close to losing her.

Their apartment, found silent and stale on his arrival from Brazil, without her sweet welcoming presence, had given him the first indication of how meaningless his life would become if she were gone for good. She had not been there to give him that sheepish little smile along with a timid, chaste kiss on his cheek. She had not been there to place his jacket neatly in the closet and next, in a wordless ritual, to pour him exactly two fingers of scotch while he began to unknot his tie, his shoulders and his whole stiff business demeanor. She had not been there to fuss and bother silently around him, careful not to smother him, giving him time to open up, to adjust to the comfort and safety of home, at all time drinking him in with her eyes. And most of all, she had not been there so he could ravenously enfold himself in her body, ease himself into her and forget, forget, for a while, everything.

No, she had not been there at all. There had been only stillness, shadows and misery.

The only sound had been the thump of his suitcase hitting the floor and that had oddly reverberated in the silence, giving him the feeling of a dark and empty grave. He stood in there, incapable of bringing any soul into that estranged space; just stood, quiet, rigid, his own dark turmoil threatening to undo him. He just stood, numb, lifeless, plagued by endless, frustrating questions, without a clue of her well-being or whereabouts, until late into the night, too deeply indrawn to notice the utter lack of light or noises.

Yeah, so damn close... It was a sobering idea and Edward pushed it out of his mind. He could not let himself think about that any longer. Equally disturbing was picturing Isabella being intimate with that boy; that prospect pierced him sharply, turning his features ashy and his mind resolute. He cursed again, fiercely fighting both his blind anger and a violent resurgence of jealousy. He crushed the thought, because if he had let himself dwell in it, his control would have shattered. He was in a savage mood, had been since he'd seen the photos. He had to use all his patience in the face of the awful need to destroy that man. Patience indeed - a feature of great power and command of one's self.

Even subdued, that inexorable urge for vengeance made a mockery of his intellect and self-control.

It had started to rain lightly and the soft tapping on the hood little by little distracted Edward from his murderous fantasies. He placed the envelope and its content back under the seat. It will need to be destroyed. He will see to that in the morning.

Edward leaned back against the headrest and his chest rose with several deep breaths. Traces of her burned his throat again and he swallowed hard. His heart wished she were there, beside him, within his reach. His mind was grateful for the distance.

He had to think now and it is hard to think when one can only feel. The night, with her dark corners and fuzzy edges, sometimes does that. For it is the time when you doubt everything. When you wonder if you have what it takes. The strength to carry on, to do what must be done. And sometimes, just because it is such a gloriously subjective thing, night forces you only to sink deeper into your thoughts; to pour yourself into your own head.

He particularly loved driving during nighttime; quiet music in the background, the night air, silent accomplice, fragrant and crisp, sighing past the windows. Life seems simpler and the hold of wheel gives you the ephemeral illusion of control.

He switches on the ignition and the powerful engine at once purrs smoothly, the sound calming in itself. We can see him better now, his face pale and drawn in the gleam of the dash lights. His emerald eyes catch the light as he leans forward to search among the music CDs while the engine is warming. He has decided on Bach. It will help him reflect more efficiently. Before easing the big black sedan into gear, he takes another look at the hotel façade, at all those dark windows. She is in there somewhere. Slowly, he pulls into the main road then quickly accelerates away, but when he sharply glances up into the rear - view mirror, we can see his eyes. They are burning...

He always concentrated better if he could just lock himself totally inside his brain; or perhaps it was more a matter of shutting everything else out, the intruding reality and its physical stimuli. And she was by far the most powerful stimulus of all. Vision is much clearer when unclouded by emotion. Oscar Wild's words surfaced from the depths of his memory. "_A man who is master of himself can end a sorrow as easily as he can invent a pleasure. I don't like to be at the mercy of my emotions. I want to use them, to enjoy them, and to dominate them."_

Indeed, uncontrolled emotion was not only useless, it was stupid.

That personal axiom of his had not helped at all that night. He had been angry and lost control more than once. That had never happened before. His voice had been guttural with rage, and that made him even angrier, because it was evidence of just how far his control eroded. He had often had to remain silent, as he mastered his temper and his voice, reaching hard, deep down to find that icy control educated in years of uncompromising discipline, for which he was famous.

Seemingly, she had developed an astonishing ability for breaking through to his primitive impulses and even more disturbingly, she had not appeared to be even trying. He clearly was not as disciplined as he gave himself credit for. Perhaps only to underline that conclusion, his thoughts returned to her on their own accord.

Blinded by his temporary insanity, her faint in the elevator had caught him off guard. He snatched her up against his chest in time though, keeping her from collapsing on the floor, while he brutally berated himself between clenched teeth for his lack of control. Unconscious in his arms, she was as limp and helpless as a doll, her head lolling against his shoulder. Light, almost immaterial, like a bird with its bones filled with air. He felt like running then; running like a demented lunatic, with his sweet, immeasurably precious burden cradled at his chest, running 'till the end of the earth, where he could hide her from the world, shield her from all evil. Keep her for only himself.

Frowning, his jaw set, he hurriedly carried her into the room, to the bed and laid her down tenderly upon it. She was as white as the sheets, her skin translucent, fragile like precious porcelain. Her pulse - weak but stable.

For a moment then, his barely-there self-control vanished again, being swiftly replaced with rapacious greed and difficult hunger. A hunger more maddening, more primal than the one for nourishment. As shy and embarrassed as he realized she might be about being laid out before him naked, he could not stop himself from removing her clothing. He needed to see her, to touch her, to...

Having already decided to deprive himself of her, he severely had to restrain himself from doing anything else. He was in a brutal disposition and that choice only made his temper even more precarious.

After he had disciplined himself yet again, he stood over her for what seemed an eternity, looking down into her face, trying to no avail to read the answers to his myriad questions in her unconscious features, patiently waiting for her to come back to him.

She always drew immodest gazes and he never failed to notice them, the wondering, impious stares, which some men gave her. Although he may have reached the level of maturity when a man is vain if content with such illusory delights as vanity bestows, that occurrence always made him smile. Superior, conceited. She was _his_.

He remembered well how heads lifted as soon as they entered in that restaurant, focusing on her in dark blurs of desire. Slow inquisitive stares, drinking her in, sliding over her like lustful fingers; no smile appeared on his cold lips then.

And fate only teased him more when, during their dance, she leaned into him, her dark and shining eyes gazing passionately into his, her mouth a little open with desire, driving him mad. He had to keep her at distance, enough not to touch intimately or she would have felt his raging hard on.

He had to school himself to stillness again, during their dispute, and again with significant effort. He strictly limited his intemperance to admiring her unconscious grace from that painful, self-imposed distance. He saw the deepening strain in her expression while she described her plight but stood still, fighting his need to go to her, the instinctive urge to comfort her. She had been so stoical in her sorrow, so quiet in her need, too unselfish or maybe just too proud to be emotionally burdensome. He recalled her voice filled with raw anxiety, the tears glittering in her lashes, her sad and seductive whispers and the knife of guilt twisted in him. He couldn't begin to fathom the depth of her pain. And in spite of all that, he still had been a bastard, deliberately devoid of any sensitivity. The key word here was 'deliberately', but that was in no way an argumentative excuse.

Edward cruised down the city on near-deserted roads in the now steady drizzle, road-lights licking the night ahead his mind's roar. He was driving with a significant amount of physical detachment. Only his sight was consciously involved; his other senses were elsewhere, drifting along with his thoughts. When he started feeling the beautiful leather rim steering wheel through his fingers, he knew that his system had finally begun to settle down.

There was something that was worth worrying over, though, he thought wryly to himself.

A beat of thought and suddenly a dark suspicion bloomed in his mind. A wild, murky suspicion. He pulled the car to the side of the road and focused harder. A fleeting idea, which he had already dismissed from his mind on several occasions that night, kept on creeping back. He had tried to clarify the thought, or rather the sensation, but its precise nature escaped him, being obscured at the time in a mixture of anger and confusion.

The word whispered clearly in his mind now, even though he still regarded it as nonsense. _Sabotage._

Edward almost clamped his hands on the sides of his head to keep the swift succession of thoughts from getting away. The more he considered the possibility, the more sense it got. That would explain a lot more than the apparently trivial disappearance of a letter. He was well aware that all the elements of epiphany had been present in his mind, bouncing at random with the million other things he pondered. Yet, that minor aspect of the letter was what triggered the connection.

He had still to recover from his revelation when his phone set on the passenger seat lit on a sudden in the darkened car. A text from Alice.

"_She alright?"_

His long, elegant fingers quickly, deftly typed his reply.

"_Yes, she's okay. Pack a bag, I need you here."_

Her answer came shortly and put a real smile on his sculptured lips. The first one in weeks. For the briefest moment, the troubled expression left his face.

"_Already done. Booked a plane ticket too. Take care."_

That settled, Edward leaned back in the seat and revised his inductive reasoning. He just had to be right in his suspicions. He considered all the options open to him and refined his plan, as he tried to balance urgency with caution. Wariness and anticipation mingled, forming a volatile aggression that made him feel more alert, more on edge, than he ever had before. Within fifteen minutes, he had formulated his plan of action. That was good enough for now, but he must not allow his cold fury to blur his thinking anymore.

Edward picked up again his cell. He would do what must be done. There was no rest in it, but it must be done. Once his strategy outlined, he began making calls. He did not give much thought about the time difference; it was late everywhere. He talked with his father and in brief with Emmett, pithily informing them about his sudden theory. However, in the conversation with his chief security Edward was not so terse. The man was always ready to act and well accustomed with Edward's blitzing style of decision-making. He spoke very little and only asked pertinent questions. Edward highly appreciated that feature in a person. They talked for several minutes, sliding the chess pieces of his tactic into place.

He placed his last call to Arlanda airport. Using his voice and approach with uncanny precision, he manipulated the person at the other end of the line into the response he needed. It was almost as if he were a master puppeteer, pulling strings so deviously that people never noticed they were being conducted by his will. It had been the easiest phone call of all.

Edward drove back to the hotel after that. He had to concentrate on more immediate affairs; his head still throbbed and he was absentmindedly considering whether to look for an all-night pharmacy. He rolled down the car window on his side and a strong scent of pine trees and dark, earthy soil burst in and filled his lungs. There was still little traffic at four-thirty a.m.

His thoughts returned to her and he wondered what she was doing. Surely asleep by now. Was she dreaming of him? The current piece of music coming from the stereo, dramatic and staggering in its opening, got him the feeling of a vast cathedral with vaulted arches and rose windows allowing light to pierce the darkness of space and silence in the sanctuary. He could see in his mind's eye even the motes of dust swarming in a ray of sun. By turns, he felt himself dark and brooding then serene and grateful as the Bach's Chaconne gradually unfolded itself in the air. "What right does sadness have to be so beautiful?" he wondered softly, thinking of her. And then her name whispered on and on through his mind, wrapped in passion and melancholy. _"Isabella..."_

Inside the hotel room, the darkness is almost absolute but he has no need of light. He enters without sound, his footsteps stifled in the rug. A soft puff of air as he passes us and nears the big white bed.

Even in the darkness, he is able to make out clearly the pale shimmer of her skin. She is covered with sheets, one slim, bare leg sticking out. Her white skin glows in obscurity, her long dark hair spilled over the pillow. He watches her lying asleep, selfishly absorbing her every breath as if it were his own and something diamond-hard in his heart softens. It occurs to him in the moment that with all his knowledge and insight, he can never entirely predict her, or own her at all.

She stirs in her sleep and rolls to her side with a small sound. She is quite a deep sleeper but he still wonders if she sensed his presence. The soft whimper makes his hungry, impatient cock pulse in response.

He closes his eyes and his mind swims again with the sensation of her smooth limbs sliding over him...the feel of her mouth beneath his, her silky hair in his hands, the sweet torment of holding her close. When his hand had cupped her cheek, his thumb finding the curves of her ever-tempting lips, she made a noise so throaty and seductive that for a moment he almost forgot himself...

But his iron will slowly won out, and with an effort that brought sweat on his skin and strained every muscle in his body, he eased himself from the clinging embrace of her arms and legs. Simply to roll off her and get up it had taken more effort than ever imagined possible. It had taken everything he had.

Truth is, he burns to own her. To be the only one ever allowed to touch her, possess her body and obsess her mind. To be the one who teased her into a furious, helpless blush, the one close enough to feel her pulse quickening then faltering, the one who sent her eyelids quivering closed in bliss. And then, as the ecstasy ebbed away from her and a satisfied little smile appeared on her lips, marking the lazy savoring of the aftertaste of pleasure, he wanted to be the single, primary cause of that too.

His blood rushes again, heat painfully stirs in his body, in his aching cock, and guilt only makes him want her harder.

It is not what Isabella must be thinking, not just jealous possessiveness.

He used to steal furtive glances at her with greed and pride glittering in his eyes and every time concluded that he was truly blessed. He was rightfully proud of himself because she had chosen him. He had often lain awake at night, watching her, her shapes so pleasing to contemplate. She had taught him to relish. He was content in her presence. At ease. At home.

He nearly laughed when he heard her so furiously readmitting her love for him. He nearly laughed then, darkly, loudly. Homerically. Relief, so exquisite it was nearly pain, washed through him at the sound of her angry confession. He gloated like a wild beast. Like a monster. He had scarcely dared to hope for that answer, whereas the opposite would have carried him into abyssal debts, beyond all possibility of resurrection.

That delectable memory brings again a smile on his face. It is more an expression in his darkened eyes, rather than an actual movement of his mouth but a deep, savage elation is rushing through him. She loves him still. She wants him still. There is no question about that. Pure, primitive male triumph has been roaring through him since her vital craving for him revealed itself.

Nothing significant has changed. Nothing irremediable has happened. She is still his, in body and in spirit.

He opens his eyes and sits there, beside the bed for long minutes. Tension slowly drains from him; the searing anger is eased now by her soothing presence. Her slow breathing calms him down like a mantra. She seems so peaceful in her sleep, her pained expression wiped away.

He wishes he could lie down next to her, take her in his arms and sleep for a thousand nights. Wishful thinking coming from tiredness.

Night had weakened and sunlight weakly crept in through the windows. He stifled his dreaming and summoned again his regular companions of anger and revenge to renew his strength. It was time to pay that visit to Jacob Black, as promised.

Fresh clothes and his appearance was impeccable again; his driving precise as ever. Edward pulled the car to a stop in front of a cottage, partially concealed from the road by tall, intransient oaks. He cut off the engine and kept his vigilance. He simply knew the boy would be out soon.

There was not much color in late November for the first light to find. All gray. So bleak. Not many sounds around either. Just the whistle of the wind high in the turning oaks.

Finally, the front door opened and the boy appeared, holding a helmet under his arm. The very same arm that she had held so warmly. He was young, in his early twenties, still a student Edward recalled. A tall, well-built boy who gave the promise of becoming an outstanding man. His appeal to women was understandable.

To other women, sure, anytime. But not to his.

When Edward alighted from the car into the fine rain he looked hard; he had the appearance of a man who had seen everything; a man who could endure anything. His steady posture radiated a fiery clarity, foretelling to ignorant eyes his reputation for unblinking severity in all matters. He approached the house without hurry; only the soft, muffled rustle of the sodden leaves beneath his feet announced his presence.

The boy saw him coming and stopped dead on the spot, straightening his back.

"Good morning, Mr. Black."

"Mr. Cullen."

A few silent, awkward seconds passed by. Edward nodded towards the motorcycle.

"Is this yours?" He had asked that already knowing what the answer would be. Just for polite introduction.

"Yes." It was a wary word.

"Then I must compliment you on a very fine piece of machinery," he said calmly. "It is quite something."

"Yes, it is," the boy answered, pride quickly flourishing in his voice. "I am lucky to have found it. It's a real jewel. Are you interested in motorbikes, Mr. Cullen?"

Edward did not immediately respond. He was considering his almost rival, assessing him openly with his cool, unreadable gaze. He found the young man's appearance mildly impressing. The look with which he had met Edward's steady stare was clear, sincere. Unblemished. He showed no visible signs of being intimidated, apparently having recovered nicely from the stun of the previous night.

"Can't afford to be at the moment. One day, maybe, when I'll have the time to enjoy it."

"There's no time like the present, they say..."

Edward got a glimpse through the words inside the boy's mind and saw imprudence. Curiosity. Impatience. Youthful recklessness.

The boy perhaps would make a fine man some day. But for now, he lacked a few traits, among which, essentially, a certain amount of experience. And he won't gain any on Isabella's expense. Nor on his. Enough with the small talk.

"Speaking about the present, Mr. Black... "

Jake raised his head warily sensing the change in the wind and his expression became guarded.

"Isn't that a wonderful coincidence?"

"What, sir?"

"Having so much in common, you and I." The boy looked at him with inquiring eyes and Edward coolly explained.

"Well, we do seem to be sharing the same taste in women also, Mr. Black... Not just in bikes."

He looked uneasy for a moment, fumbling for words.

"About that..."

Edward raised his hand to stall the boy's effusion.

"Don't bother to defend yourself! I don't intend to take much more of your time so please, let me continue. I am not here to apologize for last night. I simply won't do it. In a similar situation, you would have reacted the same way I did. There is also, no need for you to apologize. You obviously were not informed about my existence and I give you the benefit of the doubt; had you known, I am sure you would have acted...let's just say, differently.

I am however, unlike my wife, keenly aware of her unintended effect on men and that brings us to why I am here."

Edward made a little pause, giving the boy time to speculate.

"I am returning to States sooner than I had planned to take care of some rather stringent issues and I am leaving Isabella here for now. I am counting on you to stay away from her. She will most probably try to reach you and I want you to deny her the possibility of talking to you or getting in contact with you in any form. I want your word as a gentleman on it."

"But, Mr. Cullen…"

The rage was suddenly there again, still cold and consuming, undiluted.

"I'm not here to have a debate with you over this subject, Mr. Black! The matters are simple. My wife is mine. Your word, please..."

Hesitating for only an instant, the young man nodded his agreement.

"Good. That being established, I give you a friendly warning: if I am told you were anywhere near her again, I'll make you regret it for the rest of your life!"

Polite or maybe just cautious, Edward did not immediately give his back to the boy. He slowly took a couple of steps backwards, preparing to leave, his mind already focusing on his next concern. There were other practicalities that had to be worked out, too.

"Mr. Cullen!"

On the point of turning away, Edward stopped and severely looked back at the young man; his icy green eyes were even colder, even more remote. He did not lose his temper but his fists balled briefly, partially hidden in his cuffs and irritation was plain on his features. From where he stood, there was nothing more left to be said.

"If I were you, I would be really careful. When I first saw your wife... her eyes were dead."

"Keep your unsolicited observations to yourself, Mr. Black," Edward replied, his voice so cold that the air around them turned arctic. "I hope, for your own sake, that you are a man of your word or you'll be hearing from me again. You really don't want to risk my displeasure by continuing to poke your nose into my affairs."

He did not spare another look on that boy.

When he entered the room, the bed was empty. For a minute there, he panicked and on a second, simultaneous train of thought, he wondered if the sheets were still bearing her scent and warmth; the pillow was still dented where her head had rested.

Quickly, little noises from the bathroom gave away her presence. The sink faucet running. The sound of the hairbrush placed on the vanity. A muffled sound escaped him – a quick exhale of relief and gratitude, and he seated himself on the bed. His eyes burned with fatigue.

He only wished he were able to reestablish the authority that she obviously needed so he could safely begin to unravel the threads of that unwelcome complication in their lives. He was impatient to return to his known normality. The feeling displeased him for impatience can be dangerous. It can lead to mistakes.

He was expecting a stormy reaction to his news. That he was going back home without her. He resented leaving her behind but until he knew for certain what had happened, it was not a chance he was willing to take.

He closed his eyes for the briefest second and then there she was, framed in the bathroom door, wearing nothing but his dress shirt from last night. Her long, thick hair flowing over her shoulders was a little damp. She had showered. The shirt hung loosely on her slender frame, in patches where her skin was wet, the fabric slightly rumpled, gracing her with a maddening disheveled look that he found impossible not to take notice of. The strong, artificial light of the bathroom shone from behind through the thin material, revealing her to him, shadowed outline of thigh and hip and breast and shoulder.

He watches her with well-hidden greed, secretly savoring the view of her graceful, feminine silhouette, so unawarely provided. She looks so young, slim thighs and high, graceful breasts, as though invulnerable to the relentless stampede of the time. All anger disappears. There is only raw, unrepentant desire. He wants to taste her with his teeth, to have her essences flooding his mouth, to crush her into his every pore like oil. She has yet to see him. He wonders about her skin, if it is warm and fragrant, still humid and flushed from her bath. Abruptly the air around him turns heavy, thick. Hard to inhale. His blood roars in his temples. Quick flashings succeeding. The ripened texture of her swollen nipple beneath his thumb. Her hand, exploring him in bold, curious, tender caresses. Her back, arched up in sweet agony. Hot, inarticulate little whispers, rolling undone off her lips, wanting, demanding, begging...

With merciless acuity makes a mental count of the seconds that would take him to reach her, lose the shirt, spread her beneath him and take her fast, right there on the floor. Ten? Fifteen?

She took a step towards him, away from the light, the shirt now safely opaque. When she finally noticed him sitting there, on the edge of the bed, he was frozen still, busy tempering both his boiling arousal and his steely strength, reining them in with the icy power of his mind.

He could hear her soft gasp and saw her eyes growing as wide and wondrous as a child's. Still rapt from the sight of her, he queried softly, careful not to scare her.

"Washing away the effects of a bad night, Isabella?"

**I take this opportunity to thank you again for reading and reviewing this story. For their generous support and encouragement, deep thanks to Ganina and of course, to Viltsuuh and also to Twificplaza for interviewing me. (If interested, you can find the link in my profile.)**


	11. Chapter 11

**I own nothing.**

It was still early when I awoke the next morning, and the very first thing I noticed was that I was alone. Not only in the giant, cushy bed, but in the room also. The bathroom door was slightly open but I knew he was not in there. There was an emptiness to the profound silence around me that left me no doubt.

The pillow beside me was neat. Untouched. Where was he? Why hadn't he returned? Was he okay?

Of course he was. How stupid of me to worry. "_He is indestructible, isn't he? Made of granite and steel."_

For a while, I lay unmoving in that alien, engulfing bed, where I felt, despite the situation, comfortable and strangely secure. For an instant, I even had the ridiculous impulse to stretch cat-like, relishing the sensation of bare skin flowing over crisp, immaculate sheets. Like I would have done in any ordinary morning in the safety of my own bedroom.

However, this was not my bedroom and, as the memories of the previous night flooded back at me, I was developing serious doubts about the ordinariness of the rising day.

I pushed away the soft white comforter and rose to my feet. I was wearing only the infamous lingerie and a chill swept across my bare arms and legs. I looked around for my clothes, discarded on the floor, only to decide that they were unusable. But tossed askew at the feet of the bed, was the white shirt he had worn last night. He had returned some time during the night after all.

I slipped into it and lifted it to my face, inhaling deeply, greedily. His scent had remained on the fabric. I recognized the faint trace of his cologne, so quiet that it was just barely there, and beneath it, hints of the musky, masculine scent of his skin. That mixture made me dizzy again with wanting him.

I needed it, that solid, silent proof that his presence was not just a figment of my imagination.

The room was spacious, I noticed idly as I made my way into the bathroom, the thick carpet pleasantly soft underfoot. But it was still an unfamiliar, impersonal hotel room and made me feel a wave of yearning after home.

"_Soon, perhaps..."_

I turned on the bathroom light and the switch clacked stridently in the tiled room. I blinked discomforted at the sudden bright light.

It seemed so quiet without him.

I brushed my teeth, rinsed my mouth, carefully avoided the mirror… I didn't need to look in there to know what I'd see but still, I winced when, unwillingly, I caught sight of my reflection. I looked oddly frail, with pale cheeks and dark circles under my eyes. Strained with my own unsettling thoughts. Unhealthily thin. I shook my head with an indulgent sigh.

"_Haven't I done this before? Quite recently, too?"_ I murmured to my reflection.

I felt...God, I didn't know how I felt. How should I feel? I thought dimly.

Battered. Confused. Misjudged.

Overwhelmed again by his impossibly wondrous personality.

Frustrated, angered and hurt. Terribly in love.

An unbalanced mix of bittersweet sensations. A deep emotional malaise I was incapable of shaking off.

After his inopinate exit, I had stayed awake for a long time, staring at the ceiling through that eerie darkness and thinking, thinking until every recurrent thought twisted and blurred, turning grey and fuzzy. I did not remember falling asleep. I did remember deciding it was plainly exhausting to contemplate all the possible explanations for the appearance of the photo, for the disappearance of the letter and all the reasons one might have to do such things. And that maybe it was best to leave the solving of the mystery to Edward. All I wanted was the things back the way they used to be.

I stepped into the shower, turning it as hot as I could, standing beneath the spray for a long, long time, letting the stinging water ease some of my worries away along with the soreness from my muscles. I was tired of the introspection, of the constant, futile analysis of my feelings. I was tired of feeling them.

I had been sure I wouldn't be able to sleep and still, I did. Despite the emotional exhaustion, despite the worries and the nervousness, despite every unkind thing he had said to me, his presence soothed me. I felt better now that he was here. He cared enough to come here.

He had given me nothing else I could revel in though.

Was he caring enough to take me back?

He had left upset. But so was I. He had said things last night, done things that could not be so easily overlooked. I wondered if he would endeavor to soften my resentment; what a fool indeed I would be if, while offended by wrongful accusation, I could still be worked on by a little good humor. Still, I was aware that my grudge did not mean much. My conscience and scruples were worthless when he took me in his arms, poor, useless chaperons that were vanquished by his first touch.

It was irritating to be so predictable and conscious of it, while I could not even begin to guess what he would do, or say, or think. I had a crazy hope that he'd cooled down though, and come to his senses. That he would turn sweet and tender and we could find again our magical ease. Still, with Edward, you never knew, and little comfort could be found in that hope.

I glanced once more in the mirror before exiting the bathroom. There were no answers in its waters. Only a world of sorrow.

I paused for a moment by the bathroom door and stared at the weak early-morning light that pressed against the window, a graying so fragile that it scarcely penetrated beyond the partly drawn curtains. Odd. I did not remember them being drawn. The day seemed to be dark with low, oppressing clouds. A bad omen, perhaps? The thought gave me a chill and I wrapped his shirt closer to myself, stepping further into the still dim bedroom, padding silently, barefoot.

Then I lifted my eyes and there he was.

Dark, ominous, devastatingly handsome. As if thunderstruck, I stood still, instantly mesmerized and stared at him unable to look away, as helpless as a lamb must stare at a lion about to pounce.

His blackened eyes narrowed as he surveyed me from my bare feet to my disheveled hair. A gleam shifted in them as they traveled the length of my body once more, taking the time to look methodically at all of me. His perusal was intentional and I knew he wanted me to be aware of it.

Slowly, so slowly his attention returned to my face. His features revealed even less than last night. His dark, deliberate gaze locked with mine and I was waiting for him to smirk at me in his insufferable, condescending way. Instead, his deep voice sounded both charged and challenging in an intimate way.

"Washing away the effects of a bad night, Isabella?"

It had been indeed a strenuous, terrible night during which most of the battles had been fought in pregnant silences and haunted looks. During which I had been outright pathetic, weak and utterly pitiful... For that, I felt a stab of annoyance with myself.

"The worst." I admitted in a faint murmur.

Despite my umbrage, the sight of him had made my mouth go dry. He was wearing a Dartmouth green dress shirt, which made his eyes look even greener. I hadn't seen that shirt before; it must have been bought recently. The thought of him doing things without me or my knowledge, as simple and mundane as the purchase of a shirt, made me feel a sharp, searing, incandescent pain that weakened me in a split second like a mortal wound. I almost staggered off my feet. That instant realization that his life in all its aspects, even the trivial ones, could go on without me, hurt me more than his antagonistic aloofness, more than his sarcastic manner.

"Where have you been?" I asked in an altered voice, which at the moment I could not entirely handle.

There was an instant's pause before he answered.

"I drove around and thought things over."

He still sounded so damn remote. I clenched my hands into fists, to stop their shaking, determined to hold on to my control. If he could be self-contained, then so could I. I forced my voice to evenness.

"I thought you were intoxicated. That and driving? It doesn't sound like a wise combination... It doesn't sound like _you_."

"Last night was no ordinary night."

"_Indeed, it wasn't..."_ I thought wryly.

"You returned, though. You've changed your clothes..."

"Yes," he replied quietly. He hadn't given up on being cryptic and that was so freaking tiring and infuriating that I wanted to scream at him, to shake him, to force him out somehow from behind that impenetrable screen he maintained between us.

"Then left again?"

He remained silent, watching me wordlessly, with cold and inscrutable eyes; but as persistent as I can be at times, I asked the question again.

"I went down to order room-service. I didn't want to wake you by using the phone. Breakfast is on its way. I also bought a toothbrush for you."

"I used yours."

"Of course you did."

Apparently amused by my defiance, he gave his answer casually, turning his eyes to the door of the chamber where a soft knock had sounded. Right on cue. He rose from the bed and went to get it. Seconds later, he returned pushing the breakfast cart and I watched him setting the shinny trays onto the round table by the window.

"I thought that was the waiter's job..."

"Well, you're not exactly dressed for company, are you?"

"And whose fault is that? Thank you for destroying my dress, by the way."

Something passed across his features then was quickly gone. Hadn't I known better, I might have believed it was guilt. Or remorse.

"I will buy you another one. Identical, if you desire to hold on to a lasting memento of a memorable evening."

"It is ruined, nevertheless." I pointed out, stubbornly.

"You should consider yourself lucky that the dress is the only thing coming out destroyed from last night, Isabella..." he said sharply through gritted teeth. "And why is it bothering you so much? Did you try to go anywhere?"

I did not reply.

"Well? Did you?"

"No."

"Good. Now, sit down," he said remotely. "You've had a troubled night; you need to replenish your strength. In addition, by looking at you, I'd say you haven't been eating properly lately."

The breakfast was appealing - omelet with fresh herbs, some wonderful smelling pastries, slices of fresh fruit. He was pouring the coffee and the hot aroma filled the air. I crossed my arms and opened my mouth for a cutting reply but I didn't.

I couldn't.

I wanted to sit down at the same table and share a meal with him.

Also, my stomach rumbled. I was hungry. He took a seat himself and started filling both our plates.

"Sit down and eat with me," he ordered again softly. His voice retained now a gentle yet persuasive tone the effect of which he seemed to be fully conscious. I could not but obey and we ate silently for a while.

I figured it was just as good a time as any to start questioning him.

"Well...have you reached to a conclusion?"

"I expect so. Nocturnal driving always helps me put things into perspective," he replied with the same maddening calm. I waited for him to expand on that but he didn't. He simply made me ask the rest.

"And what might that be?"

His gaze flicked up to me for a moment, cool and assessing and answered with a touch of asperity.

"That I wish to forget as soon as possible about this unexpected... _intermission_ in our life."

"That is such an exhaustive answer, Edward."

He nearly smiled but did not reply.

"You enjoy being incomprehensible, don't you?"

"Judging by your acrimony, Isabella, I think it's about time to clear this uncomfortable air of uncertainty between us."

"I've told you everything I know and everything I feel, Edward. Nothing but the bald truth. Do you want to go trough the story again? It is not exactly comfortable, you know..."

"I know."

"You believe me." I calmly observed, hiding my relief.

"Yes," he said softly, "I do."

I released the breath I had been holding unconsciously.

"I wish you had done it without the terrible show from last night."

"The language of anger is never enjoyable, Isabella..." he sternly replied and his voice took on a raw, tense tone for a moment.

"So I've discovered," I said coolly.

"Your latest actions have prompted me to become more verbally aggressive than I usually am. You were obviously in need... of a reminder of my authority. That is not an excuse, simply an explanation. It's useless to sulk," he continued, apparently impervious to my growing annoyance, "I would do it again if the issue arose. But of course, it won't. Ever.

I do feel sorry though, because a man who does not master himself will never be able to master anything else."

Suddenly he astonished me with a slow, lazy grin. "Least of all a woman stubborn as yourself..." Playfulness went briefly through his voice and he actually chuckled, a dark, deep sound that played across my senses like a wave of pleasure. The same as the strike of the lowest key on a piano resonates throughout a room, the rich sound of his laughter sank through my skin, went all the way to my bones, echoed deep inside my body.

"I'm not in the least stubborn," I said in denial, blowing a stray strand of hair out of my face. My voice came out alarmingly low and smoky. An instantaneous, irrational response to his lighthearted remark. To my dismay, I sounded almost...inviting.

"You always were," he muttered, still amused.

"I am not such thing. And as far as I know, I am my own person; I wasn't aware I needed to be..._mastered_ in any way." I cleared my throat of the huskiness that kept creeping in despite my effort.

A slow, unreadable smile lifted the corners of his mouth again.

"My, Isabella, feeling better already?"

"What makes you think so?"

"Because I get this wild impression that you're flirting with me," he answered with a teasing gleam in his eye.

He had seen right through me, and my transparence annoyed me more than him speculating his insight. Angry heat rose up my neck and bled across my cheeks before he moved his gaze from his plate to my eyes.

"Well, you're mistaken!"

He raised his coffee cup and took a sip. His face became grave and a trifle stern, but his smile was still very sweet.

"I must be or else you wouldn't be giving me this stabbing glare, would you?"

"I am thrilled that you find me humorous."

"Shall we both play the little game of anger, then? Sorry if I don't wiggle my tail around you like a puppy, Isabella. Or my ponytail. Sadly, I don't own one and that's a pity, since you seem to like them..."

"Do you absolutely despise me?" I interrupted him in a snappy tone, annoyed by his ironic and so gratuitous allusion to Jake's hair. Rapidly, his eyes darkened and it seemed to be no indulgence left in them.

"Far from it." he curtly replied. "I am only deeply disappointed with the way you reacted on the issue of the picture, Isabella. And, in spite of all your explanations, still extremely angry for the Mr. Black stunt."

He was on a sudden serious and showed not a smidgen of condescension.

"I feel bad now for leaving home the way I did. As for the Jake stunt, as you call it, I repeat, it was an innocent social interaction. I have nothing to be sorry about."

"Well, I'm definitely going to make sure that you will be," he assured me in a neutral, pleasant tone.

"For God's sake, Edward, what will you do? Have me tarred and feathered for something that did not happen?"

Something dark and dangerous flared in his eyes; again, they were no longer glinting in amusement.

"I've never felt that a man's measure was in his ability to enforce respect and obedience but I believe in discipline as a way of resolving some issues in a healthy relationship. You've crossed a certain line of behavior, my dear. The never-drawn line in the sand. You cannot possibly expect to be no consequences," he said in stony determination.

"That's outrageous!"

I found on a sudden his calm, laid back but thoroughly in charge attitude extremely annoying. I often saw him, or heard him, tell people to do things, or force them to make choices they didn't want to make, or apply pressure, or imply what would happen if they didn't do something. It made my heart flutter to see him use power on them. Now, he was using the same kind of power on me. I grew even more irritated and unsettled and I stared at him defiantly, half expecting some explosion of wrath or stinging irony.

"Perhaps as the 'man in charge', you should look within yourself and see where your own actions have goaded me into poor behavior. The problem may be staring right back at you in the mirror!"

"Even if it were so, that would not change the fact that a rebellious woman lacks in maturity." His tone was still cool, but once more with an undercurrent of amusement.

"Now I'm not only foolish and reckless but immature, too?"

"Oh, yes," he said, smiling. "Decidedly you are."

"So, I'm just a nuisance in the end, am I?"

"Were you only that, would I be here?"

"I don't know, Edward, since I, unlike others, don't claim to have ultimate wisdom and knowledge! Tell me, did I spoil your punctilious routine, your millimetric schedule by making necessary for you to come here? Would you like me to apologize for that, too?"

I seemed to be having this incontrollable need to provoke him. Again, the amusement vanished from his face, leaving it tight and hard as he stared at me.

"You have already won yourself a punishment, Isabella, are you deliberately trying to gain another?"

"No."

"Then you'd better get both your tone and attitude in check. My mood has improved since last night but that won't last if you continue in the same key. My temper is still a bit strained."

"I'm only wondering what gives you the right and the authority to decide if, when and how I should get punished. I am not a commodity in your possession, you know."

"Certain reactions of yours from last night have given me a different idea. You weren't so determined to assert your independence then, were you? What say you? Should I kiss you again just to reconfirm that impression?" he suggested with a deceptively silky voice as he was looking at me amused, but with penetrating interest.

The sharp memory of Edward's kiss, his mouth devouring mine, flashed through my mind as a shiver chased down my spine. That frisson of immodest reminiscence creeping along my nerves left me striving for coherent thought. I swallowed to alleviate the sudden dryness of my mouth. Was there really no limit to what this man could make me feel?

"Now we know where we stand," he said with grim satisfaction when the sole reply from my part was only a furious, embarrassed silence.

I placed my fork carefully beside the plate and gathered my courage for a second round. For a more in-depth discussion.

"Maybe we should talk instead about what brought us into this unusual situation... I cannot think of one reason why would I be sent a fake photograph. Did you figure out an explanation..."

He met my gaze steadily. The line of his jaw tightened and he refused the gambit with a shake of his head.

"I will not sit here and dissect possibilities. I will go back home and find out what happened. Simple as that."

"Somebody must have taken the letter, Edward..."

He put down his fork, patted his lips with his napkin and flashed a kind of foreboding smile that turned my spine icy.

"That is precisely the reason why you are to remain here until I discover what the hell had happened at home. That '_somebody's'_ existence. I've traded my ticket for an earlier flight. The plane is leaving in a few hours."

I stared at him in impotent astonishment, as he too quickly went on.

"You will be staying here, at the hotel. There is no need for us to disturb Ms. Weber any further."

"But..."

He stopped me with his upraised hand.

"When we've finished here, I'll go to her place to fetch your things."

"I hope you do not intend to put up a show of strength for Angela as well!"

"I cast no blame on Ms. Weber, Isabella. On the contrary, I'm very grateful to her for sheltering you." He made a small pause then muttered pensively. "I shall have to thank her."

"Can't I come with you... to see Angela, I mean?"

"There is nothing suitable for you to wear, darling," he answered with a satisfied grin, his bright stare daring me to comment some more on his role in causing that. "Plus, afterwards I intend to have a word with your friend, Mr. Black and your presence wouldn't be quite ... appropriate."

"Must you speak to him again?"

The suppressed irritation of his words cut across my question.

"I'm afraid it is rather important. It can't be avoided."

"You were quite transparent last night...I'm sure he understood plenty."

I heard the soft hiss of his breath and a wry smile curved his mouth.

"And how exactly do you consider my last night's behavior to have been?"

"You were rude. That is quite unlike you."

Although his finely molded features were expressionless, I could tell that he was starting to get mad.

"I fail to see how Mr. Black's offended sensibility or welfare are still of interest to you," he said roughly. "He should not be your concern."

"Please, don't be nasty with Jake, Edward. There's no need to be...he truly has no fault..." The faint, involuntary echo of plea in my voice irritated him enough to make him raise his voice again.

"I'll act as I think best and I'll deal with him as I choose!"

He scowled at me, his eyes smoldering; he looked openly angry again.

"But I am glad you trust my judgment so that you feel necessary to advise me..." The biting wit in his tone was like a whip.

"Hold back your pleas or I might get this crazy idea that you are harboring deeper feelings for Mr. Black than your claimed friendship," he warned quietly, and then there was steel in his voice and his expression darkened yet more. "You don't want that idea nestled in my mind."

When he spoke again, there was a vague trace of softness in his voice.

"However, you needn't to worry about him. In the long term, he doesn't very much interest me. I have more...significant things on my mind."

His smile disappeared as he pushed back his chair and got to his feet.

"My intentions are only to make sure that your friend fully comprehends that you are _my wife_..."

I trembled at the way the word "wife" cut from his lips but unwisely, I pressed him harder, further. I gazed up at him, lifting my chin defiantly.

"And what if he doesn't understand it, Edward?"

He gave me a humorless smile and answered in a very soft, almost gentle tone but a savage glitter lit his eyes for the briefest second. The grim determination in his face chilled me to the core of my being.

"Then I'll hurt him."

I was not to know until much, much later that he had already been to see Jake.

When he had returned, he carried a few shopping bags and my scarce belongings from Angela's. Bearing a backpack while wearing a well-tailored suit was not a particularly happy combination, but somehow he managed to pull it off. Exceptionally.

I had been impatiently waiting for him anxious as a caged cat. The best strategy I could come up with in such short notice was to avoid arguing with him at all costs and sweet-talk my way home. No man, however wise, is able to remain totally immune to a woman's versatile, formidable arsenal of methods. He may see her scheme for what it is, but still be vulnerable to it.

Except that he started talking almost as soon as he entered, destabilizing for the moment my carefully planned ambush.

"Since your phone has been found in bits and pieces in the trash, I suspect you haven't got a new one. It seems modern forms of communication have been bothering you lately. You've resorted to old-fashioned letters instead... I just wonder how poor Mr. Black managed to get in touch with you. By simply showing up at the door? By howling at your window?"

He was speaking offhand, his tone musing in not so well hidden amusement but his eyes gleamed with faint irony.

I sucked in a steadying breath.

"I don't have a cell phone." I stated dryly, ignoring his other remarks. Anger seared me; I was innocent, and I was getting enough of being treated like a persona non grata.

"Didn't think you did either. I've bought one for you. I hope this one will not suffer some misfortunate accident too, because that will make me very unhappy."

He reached inside of one of the bags and retrieved a small box, its content obvious. With swift, precise, efficient movements, as if he were assembling a gun, he began putting the phone together. He activated the pre-paid credit and transferred his contacts to the new phone. Then he memorized the fresh number into his own cell. He even plugged in the charger and made sure it was working properly.

"That's very thoughtful of you..." I muttered ironically.

"No problem concerning you is too small for my personal attention," he quickly parried, his face impassive.

Wordlessly, he handed me a second bag. It was a gift bag, heavy for its dimensions and I peeked inside cautiously. To my surprise, it contained toiletries: shampoo, conditioner, face cream, body lotion. A perfume. All the brands I usually used at home.

It amazed me he knew exactly each product and its manufacturer and I cast him a silent, inquisitive look. He gave his shoulders an elegant shrug and explained simply, almost tenderly.

"You smell differently. I don't like it."

His unpredictable gestures, his mood swings, his entire mercurial behavior were so disconcerting, so increasingly confusing and they made me feel so angrily vulnerable that I did not know how to react anymore.

He next reached inside his suit jacket and took out his wallet. He opened it and meticulously drew out one, then a second credit card and extended them to me. His eyes were fixing me intently, in a silent, taunting provocation, expecting me to say something, anything in protest, almost inviting me to make an issue of it. I stared blankly at the little plastic slices and with a vague sensation of failure, I took them, just as silent as he was. Fighting his will in that matter would have been pointless.

I thought I saw his firm lips twitching in a triumphant little smile.

He checked his watch and started packing up his case without looking at me. He moved about the room silently, gathering his things. He hadn't quite unpacked and it did not take him long. A few items in the bathroom - fathomless his face. Each move swift and sure. I watched him without a sound, the realization that he was leaving suddenly sinking in. His look swept the room in search for things he might have forgotten and took a brief glance at the shirt I was wearing. His. Bearing his comforting scent. Unconsciously, I clung to it with one unsteady hand, unwilling to give it back to him. He didn't ask for it though and closed his traveling bag. The cold, metallic sound of the zipper added a final, startling note to the quiet.

When the heaviness of silence became unbearable, I finally put the most obvious question, with a considerable effort to prevent the tremor in my voice to be heard; as I spoke, a wave of nervousness and hurt washed through me.

"Why can't I go with you?"

"Because I think it is better this way," he replied severely and his purposely obscure answer inflamed my already precarious state.

"Are you leaving me here as a form of punishment?"

"No," he said curtly. "I'm leaving you here because it is safer. As for your punishment...that is a subject we'll need to discuss at a later date."

"Don't pretend, Edward! This isn't about my safety; this is about you controlling me!"

He only glanced in my direction, his face a cool mask of propriety.

"Then it wouldn't be very smart for me to leave you here, would it? I can think of better ways to control someone than from thousands of miles away."

"I'm sure you'll find the means to do exactly that!"

"I must be a superman, then..."

"I could always come home by myself..." I stubbornly continued.

"For a runaway wife, you are on a sudden very eager to return home, aren't you?"

I drew a deep breath. To hell with my strategy.

"I may still do it!"

"No, you won't," he said evenly.

"Who in hell do you think you are?"

He started carrying his bags to the door and without taking his eye off the task at hand, in a very assured, calm voice, he simply asked:

"Have you forgotten to whom you are talking? Have you by any chance mistaken me for someone else?"

"You can't tell me what to do!"

"I damn well can and will tell you what to do! It is my responsibility to lead our life together and keep it whole. I decided it was best you remained here for now and you will do as you are told."

"I think I'm able to tell for myself when something is best for me, thank you very much!"

"You've lost your choice in the matter the moment you decided that the best for you was to let everything drop, turn tail and run."

"So now I deserve to be treated like an idiot?"

The fine curves of his mouth set in a grim line.

"I did not say that. Nor have I ever thought it, I assure you."

I've never felt so furious with him, so abandoned, and so betrayed as in that moment.

His voice gentled. "I'll be back for you."

"Oh, your magnanimity knows no limits, Edward..."

He stopped dead on the spot and uttered between clenched teeth, in no uncertain terms, in that way that only some men can master: "_Listen to me, _Isabella!" Green ice would have been warm and soft besides his eyes and his tone thrilled me; of course, I was paying complete attention to him already.

"I usually like the challenge of an argument with you. I can understand the need a woman might have to question or try to test the strength of her man. Even if I find it amusing, I can still understand it and in normal conditions, I would have been more than disposed to take the time and expend the energy necessary to separate you from your dragon. Actually, I would have quite enjoyed it.

But this is not a common circumstance. So if you continue to spit defiance at me like a ruffled kitten, I can only conclude that you really want to test my limits. _There_ _is_ a limit to my indulgence and I'm starting to believe that perhaps you have the ambitious aim to find out what that limit may be. I am perfectly able to put you over my knee and I'll do it quite easily, Isabella, if that's what it takes for you to listen," he said, and for a moment, he looked as if the prospect gave him immense satisfaction. "It is time you understood how determined I am!"

Suddenly, despite his quiet, cold restraint and deceivingly calm demeanor, he felt dangerous, arousing my fear and submission. It was something in him, a strange magnetism that imposed his will without effort, inescapably, forcing me silently into surrender to his predatory, dominating masculine nature.

"I'm sorry if that is not a mutually satisfactory decision, but you _will_ stay here," he said firmly, and that was that.

Oddly, I felt a sort of reluctant pleasure. Because he would not put up with any nonsense from me - however much I pushed him. He knew who he was. He had no problem reminding me and I liked that he did.

He was my husband. Whatever he said, I knew that I was owned.

A few seconds of silence passed by when we just stared at each other.

"You do realize that you're obtaining my obedience with the cost of my resentment, don't you?" I weakly inquired.

"I think I can manage your resentment for the time being, Isabella, very much unlike the prospect of you being put in any danger by the person playing games with us. When you'll have given up on being stubborn and seen things from this perspective, you're going to be more understanding about this whole situation, I'm sure."

There was a light tap at the door and moving with negligent, almost casual grace, Edward went to open it. It was the bellhop for his luggage. Edward passed him his bag and laptop case without allowing him to enter and tipped him in advance. When the boy was gone, he sat on the bed and refastened his shoelaces.

His tone had changed again.

"I must confess that I have never even entertained the thought that you might be seeing other men during my absences..."

He came lithely to his feet in a single fluid movement, stepping towards me, so close that I could smell the good wool of his suit, the tantalizing whiff of his cologne. He looked at me intensely and brief irony shone in those eyes like green ice.

"...and facing that inconceivable reality has been a very, very unpleasant revelation for which I was quite unprepared." The bright amusement in his eyes had been swiftly replaced by a hard, opaque stare as he continued. "So, for now, I want no more surprises, Isabella. I doubt it's necessary to underline that seeing Mr. Black again is not an option." The calm voice was both patient and warning. "Or any other man."

"What are going to do, Edward, forbid me to leave the hotel?" I asked with a residue of bitterness.

"The thought did cross my mind, yeah... Don't tempt me into acting on it!"

His beautiful lips formed a smile, inches away from a kiss and he traced a cold fingertip over my cheekbone, suggestively. His voice lowered to a whisper, making me think of a scrap of black velvet, sliding over a luxuriously polished mahogany bed poster. All soft grace, though the words could easily be construed as a lead-in to a threat. One last warning that there were consequences to provoking him and contravening his will.

"Never defy me again!"

As he spoke, he let his hand drop and brushed mine so gently I barely felt it, yet an erotic frisson of awareness skated over the inflamed endings of my nerves, adding to my distress. It wasn't fair that such a simple gesture could make me catch my breath.

"Well...good bye for now."

A cold despair was creeping inside my soul, filling me, thrusting aside anger and discontentment. Behind my stiff façade, I was very needy of reassurance and his dry words were not soothing at all my galloping anxiety. I wanted him to hold me, to promise me that everything would be fine.

He placed his coat on his arm, took a step aside to pass by me and hastened out with firm stride and grim, determined purpose. His steps were soundless.

I stayed perfectly still as he walked past me to the door.

This was not some cruel farce after all.

He was leaving.

Really leaving.

Again.

On a sudden, I could not speak, I could not draw breath.

What if he had lied to me?

What if he had lied about returning for me just...to edulcorate a harsh reality? Just to avoid a scene?

I heard the door opening.

What if the agonizing emotional distance he kept between us was a sign?

What if he was leaving me for good?

I made a pitiful, unsuccessful effort not to look after him. I turned around just in time to see him stepping out.

The door closed behind him with a soft click.

Panic welled in me, smothering me.

He was leaving me and he did not care about it.

He was washing his hands of me.

A shriek of distress sounded in my throat.

For what seemed an eternity I just stood paralyzed, frozen, inert in bleak desolation.

I couldn't bear just to stay there like a marionette and watch him going away.

Staring at the door won't bring him back.

The thought gave me sudden strength.

I ran to the door.

I reached for the door handle.

I stepped into the hallway.

As I looked on, it was as if time stood still.

"Edward," I whispered softly, choked with anguish.

He paused, though he did not turn around. That long corridor seemed to narrow and stretch itself towards infinity, Edward just a gloom shadow in the middle of it.

"Edward," I called after him, louder, almost pleading now.

I took another step towards him, as weak and feeble as a wounded creature.

I was in despair, clutching at a last forlorn hope.

He half turned and watched me without a gesture and without any decipherable expression. His stern face, as of late hard to read, was now frozen like marble. He looked like a statue, unmoving, unfeeling.

The obstinate vacuity of his features made the blood drain from my head. I thought I might faint.

Something alarmed him, my voice, my faltering steps, the agony in my eyes.

He let his coat falling on the floor and reached me in two long strides, his arm sliding around my waist, pulling me briefly, with a tangible stiff reluctance, into the support of his body.

Encouraged by his gesture, which, despite his vague air of discomfiture I took as a small concession, I broke into a frantic, imploring whisper.

"If you're going to leave me, make love to me once more, Edward. Please... Just one more time," I feverishly pleaded, my voice becoming thick with tears.

The moment I had said this I flushed, ashamed of myself, of my folly. Where had the bold, foolish words come from? It was too late to call them back; I held my breath, waiting for him to push me away from him, to laugh and turn my pitiable plea into the cruelest kind of joke.

"No one is leaving anyone here...," he said steadily beneath his breath.

Perhaps he sensed that any unkind or contemptuous remark from him at that moment would have irremediably ripped me apart into millions of pieces.

But there was a new, caressing, soothing undertone in his deep, rich voice. I reached up with my shaking hand and dared gently, hesitantly to touch with my fingertips his forehead, the blade of his cheekbone.

"Please, Edward... I don't know how much longer I can resist without you...please don't leave me here..." My breathless rush trailed off and I released a sob.

With a lightning-swift gesture he captured my hand, held it to his cheek for a heartbeat and hungrily inhaled at the inside of my wrist. A rawness spilled into his eyes, of need and words and things remained unsaid. He made a deep-throated sound and with one firm motion, brought me colliding with his hard body, almost knocking the breath from me.

He crushed me against him, tightly, his hand sliding down the small of my back and intently molding my hips to his. A shudder passed through my spine and I inhaled sharply with a sudden apprehension. He was allowing me to feel his erection; even more, he was making sure that I felt it without any doubt. A silent, primeval, purely male form of reassurance.

He smiled a little knowingly smile, perfectly aware of the startling effects of his action, and looked at me so intensely that my head swam. Only then he lowered his head and took my mouth, in a way that told me that he too, was hungry for me.

He gave himself freely, held nothing back and I reveled in his taste, as the coolness of his lips rapidly became warm, then hard and hot. I all but whimpered into his mouth, squirming hungrily against him, trying to lift myself enough so that I could cradle the hard ridge of his manhood between my legs.

Weakness flooded my limbs, a sensual, highly erotic weakness that threatened to steal even my ability to breathe. The marrow seemed to be melting inside my bones and a maelstrom of delightful sensations overtook me. Animosity, doubt, the stinging of being excluded were all forgotten. It was such rapture in that kiss, in that embrace that it was pain. I simply adored him.

Ripping his mouth from mine, he buried his face in the curve of my throat. His breath burned my skin, heavy. "No," he whispered lifting his head and the word brushed my cheek like a kiss. "I won't take you with me this time." It was as if he were reaffirming his decision to himself. As if the spoken words would keep his resolve strong. "But I'll be back before you know it. That's a promise. I'll try not to make you wait too long," he assured me repeatedly with tender warmth.

What choice did I have except to believe him?

His hands pressed again against my back, squeezing me tight, squeezing the breath out of me, then, disappointingly, they fell away.

"Now...as much as I liked your state of undressing, I am more than unwilling to share such an exquisite view with anyone else. Return to the room," he said quietly though despite the soft words, it wasn't a request, but a demand.

"Another second, please..." I protested feverishly and clung to him with the despair of the damned. Like a mad woman.

"You must let me go, love... Making me miss my flight will not help the matters at all. Go inside. Now." His tone changed to brisk command, the words close by my ear. "I'll stay here until you've entered."

I seemed to have lost the will to move and only with extreme reluctance and out of the fear of appearing obsessed and clingy I obeyed. I let go of him and instantly felt horribly bereft.

Nothing was strong enough to divert him from his quest.

I couldn't utter farewell words. I didn't trust my voice not to break into helpless sobs. I nodded instead and gave him a parody of a smile. Then turned and stepped away on shaky legs.

I felt his eyes on me but I didn't dare to look back at him; without doubt, as promised, he didn't turn and go to the elevators until he'd heard the door close.

**Thank you for reading.**


	12. Chapter 12

**I own nothing, except for a partially cured obsession.**

The room felt vastly empty without him. Bland and again, too quiet. Ephemeral traces of him had remained in the air - shoe polish, the smell of a new leather belt, his good cologne. I seated myself in the armchair - _his_ armchair - with my legs folded beneath me and stared blankly at the walls in a sort of idiotic numbness. No duties, no decisions awaited me. But also no immediate perspective and no certain future.

The minutes dragged and the hours crawled. It wasn't until the shadows of early evening had darkened the room that I stood from that dejected position in the armchair. My legs had become so cramped that I couldn't feel them any more. I went slowly to the window and looked out on Gamla Stan and the waters of Lake Mälaren. It was a beautiful view, the kind you wish you could share with someone dear; the soft glow of the dusk was fading into darkness and the city lights were gleaming in the air and on the water surface as well, stronger with every minute that passed by. It had started to rain.

I was aware of a new kind of anxiety that suddenly impelled me forward, that urged me to get out of there. I needed to do something different, to shake off that strange inertia and apathetic indecision that had been holding me captive in the last hours. Out of the blue, I had the weird sensation that I was late for something indefinite but of crucial importance, and that I could not move fast enough to get there. I dreaded beyond measure the approaching night, whose tenebrous powers would only further deepen my weakness. I felt it, swelling in my throat, the fear of being alone with myself, the fear of the incoming, unmerciful attacks of my own thoughts and emotions.

It was almost five on a Sunday evening. Not too late for a visit.

I took off his shirt and folded it carefully, almost reverently. I unpacked my things in a hurry and dressed mechanically; a pair of jeans, a sweater, my old jacket. I took Angela's coat from the closet and wondered if had been Edward the one who had put it in there. _"Of course, stupid. Who else?"_ Idly, I thought about buying a large bag to protect the soft wool of the coat from the rain.

"_The phone...don't forget the phone..."_

From the gift shop, I got directions to the bus station. It took a twenty-five minutes long ride on a suburban line to get to Angela's town. The night's bitter cold threatened to change the heavy rain into crystals of ice, a sign that the winter was lurking nearby, unseen yet ominous, waiting to claim its turn.

Angela opened the door with a quiet, serene smile. Moving towards her, I suddenly felt self-conscious, wondering if Edward had spoken to her when he collected my things, if she suspected or knew what had happened between us.

Knowing Edward I doubted, but still, it was unsettling to wonder.

"I've brought back your coat..." I sheepishly explained my impromptu presence.

I should have called. I had a phone now.

She smiled again and waved me further inside.

"Come to the kitchen. There's coffee and chocolate cake. I've been indulging today."

The room was brightly lit and warm and smelled of cinnamon but since yesterday, it had lost that friendly and familiar air of my surrogate home. Not surprisingly, as yesterday felt like an era ago.

"Now that you've met Edward...what do you think of him?"

Angela propped her elbows on the table, the coffee cup cradled in her palms as she sipped the hot liquid.

"Well...he's elegant, handsome, almost frighteningly intelligent, charming, but also he seems to have a huge private core that no one is ever allowed to touch. Essentially elusive. Am I wrong?"

"No. You've read him well..."

I felt tears brimming.

"Did he...you know, ask you questions about me?"

"Not so many really...just the exact day when you arrived, how were you looking, stuff like that. I didn't offer anything voluntarily and I did not develop my answers too much. I told him the little I knew and also that I didn't question you much because I did not want to pry."

Angela always kept to herself and extended the same courtesy of discretion to others. I sipped absently my coffee, my mind a millions miles away.

"Tell me...is he always so exceedingly polite?"

God, I missed him.

"Yeah... He is."

She asked me nothing else. Why hadn't I sent the coat with Edward? Why did I come by bus, hadn't he had a car? How our reunion went? But had she asked, it would have been awkward to justify why I was still in Sweden. By myself.

Perhaps she didn't want to know. Perhaps she didn't care.

"_Oh, dear, when did I become so paranoid?"_

Angela changed the subject, diverting me with stories about her daughter's ballet lessons and her new infatuation with a movie character. She was speaking slowly, evenly, almost monotonously and in the state I was in, soon it became difficult to actually listen to her words. The soft, flat tone of her voice became distant, muffled, a drone, like a radio playing in another room.

"Angela," I interrupted her abruptly.

"Yes, Bella," she quietly replied, watching me with a careful expression.

"Thank you. For having me here, I mean. For everything you did for me..."

My eyes dropped to my hands, stirring uneasily in my lap.

"You would do no less for me, hun," she said in the same mild tone.

Conversation pretty much died after that, each of us concerned with our own thoughts. I remembered Edward's words. Perhaps indeed it was the time not to bother her anymore. Soon I excused myself, mumbling something about catching the last bus and left.

The ride back to the city lasted forever. I felt numb, dejected and so disoriented, as if the world had been turned upside down. _"Maybe it had."_ But the loneliness I felt most acute of all. Angela's calm, quiet presence had been in the past few weeks more helpful than I'd realized. Now that I was on my own, I felt the earth slipping away from under my feet.

"_What am I doing here?"_

I was out of place, lost among strangers, riding a bus to nowhere. Like a fugitive tired of his freedom on the run, I, as well, found that I had everywhere to go except the one place where I wanted most to be. I missed the sense of home, of safety and belonging.

It was difficult not to associate the idea of home with him.

I missed him. I missed his odd way of getting dressed in the morning, putting on first the pants, then the shoes and only after the shirt and the rest of his clothes. I missed having coffee together and his witty comments from behind the morning paper that were always making me laugh.

He was gone now and I was left only with a sense of desperate and confused isolation and lonely helplessness.

Insecurity crept back soon after he had left. I doubted everything again. His reassuring words _"I'll be back for you"_ had a new ring to it, now they sounded inside my head like a sick, perverse mockery.

I reminded myself sourly that I was there by my own choice.

I laid my temple against the cool windowpane and let my eyes wonder outside but the veil of darkness was absolute. I ended up staring at the raindrops sliding on the steamy window, stopping, merging with one another, forming bigger drops, their downward path altered by the speed of the bus. I busied my mind attempting to predict their hazardous trajectories, imagining intricate patterns where there weren't any until my sight grew weary.

I moved my gaze and looked around. Cold fluorescent light rained from above, exaggerating figures and sharpening features of the other travelers, anonymous individuals that were swaying in tune with the bus motion as they gripped the support poles. It seemed on a sudden as if I had been forcefully transplanted into a parallel dimension, lacking sense, purpose and physical boundaries, as I knew them. I half-expected that the blue, rigid plastic seats to begin melting, that the humans and the objects to start commingle into grotesque entities and giant giraffes on flimsy legs to appear on the horizon. A surreal nightmare while wide awake.

"_I'm losing my marbles.._." I whispered to no one.

Anxiety, black and suffocating, swallowed me again in merely seconds. _"I'm alone..."_ Suddenly, I was striving for air, and my heart raced so wildly I could hear its reverberation in my ears. That dry statement echoed along with the thump of my heart at the same peace. _"I'm alone..." _Unpleasant sweat covered my forehead and I grabbed the back of the seat in front of me to steady myself against a sudden sensation of falling. As if a forceful vortex were threatening to absorb me implacably into emptiness.

I swallowed hard and forced myself to relax. _"Take deep breaths..."_

I tried to remember what book I had left unfinished on the nightstand at home. What color was the cover? Who wrote it? Was it any good?

The iron claw holding my chest loosened its grip a bit. My palms were uncomfortably damp with nervous perspiration and I wiped them off on my jeans.

Getting off that bus became imperative. I wanted the safe walls of the hotel room around me. The same room that a few hours ago seemed strange and impersonal to me, now held all the virtues of a sanctuary. He had been there, his strong, vital, protecting energy still lingered inside. That was all I had been left with. _"Maybe if I put his shirt in a plastic bag, his scent will not dissipate, will not be lost..."_

I had enough sense left to realize the immense absurdity of that thought. I pressed my icy fingertips against my temples and the skin there felt boiling hot.

"_Perhaps I'm coming down with something...Yeah, that's must be it..." _I thought, unable to recognize the signs of the panic attack_. "Oh, God, please don't let me go crazy..."_

Out at last and the fresh, freezing air made me dizzy. City noises, lights, traffic sounds around were aggressive and disorientating to such an extent, I had to wait a while at the bus stop and look around in confusion in order to find my way back.

I pulled up my jacket hood and headed for the hotel in nervous strides trough that tenacious, belligerent rain that fell like ice thorns on my face. The pavement glittered darkly beneath my feet. I would have run but there was no strength left in me for that. Finally, the bright lobby. The shiny elevator. _"So many glitters." _The ding of the elevator sounding like a microwave's. The long, dim hallway, endless, simply endless..._"Quicker now, quicker!"_ The cardkey not easy to handle with frozen fingers. Finally inside. "_Breathe_..."

With frantic haste, I took off the wet jacket and threw myself on the bed. From under the pillow, I pulled out his shirt.

I buried my face in it and wept.

Hours later, I woke up almost in the same position, the tears long since exhausted. As my senses gathered to clarity, I became acutely aware of my wet jeans and the cold sheets beneath me. Sore from that troubled, lethargic sleep I lay very still, trying to remember what I'd been dreaming. Fragments of happy old moments butchered and mingled with fresher, horribly painful ones. Like a broken mirror remade from shards glued together and which, although repaired, can no longer reflect only one perfect clear image, but a multitude of images, all twisted and distorted.

And the pain felt in a dream, I thought...how insidious, impossible to elude... When you are awake, you can voluntarily change your train of thought, whereas asleep, you can do nothing but endure. And when you finally wake, the pain stays and lingers, tormenting you some more.

I could not live with that pain. Not for the rest of my remaining time there.

I willed myself to motion. I staggered to my feet with a heaviness in my limbs and got rid of the sticky clothes. I took a long, hot shower without one single glance in the mirror. I put on a thick, soft white hotel robe and belted it tightly. It felt good.

"_See? Small steps...Baby steps..."_

Back into the room, I searched for Edward's liquor bottle only to discover that it had been barely touched. _"Liar!"_ I thought, bitterly amused.

I poured myself a little scotch and brought the glass along to bed. I took what should have been his side. I switched on the TV and turned down the volume to background noise. The soft glow coming from the screen was all that lit the room but it was enough to chase some of the shadows away.

I drank the scotch with small sips watching blankly the TV screen. It was pleasantly warming. The taste was not bad either. Of course, from his lips tasted better. I closed my eyes and relived the way he had kissed me the night before, the way he had tasted, the fierce expertise with which he had deepened the kiss.

The memory unsettled me and sent a ripple of desire along my spine. Such a sweet ache.

I was seriously considering calling him.

I wanted to, so badly that my head whirled. But even if he had already landed, he must be tired after a twelve-hour flight and a sleepless night. Exhausted, grumpy, unshaven. Still angry perhaps. He might snap at me and I was afraid and unwilling to take that risk.

"_A text...that's different. He'd react better to a text. He can reply in his own time."_

I leaned my head back against the pillows and stared at the dark ceiling.

"_I must think of something. Not too long, not too short, not too obvious. Something that subtly invites an answer."_

A sly smile flourished on my lips. I nearly jumped out of my warm cocoon and felt around the soaked jacket seeking for my brand new cell. No missed calls. I held no defense against the vague sting of disappointment.

"_He could not have had time..."_

I accessed the hotel's wifi network and searched the net for a particular fragment from a poem I had in mind. An obsolete love poem from a different culture. I added a twist by sending him the strophe in its original language. I wondered how he'd react to that and smiled again.

I snuggled under the covers, clutching the cell phone and tightly embracing his shirt. Still smelled of him, faintly though. Perhaps that plastic bag was not such a bad idea after all.

I pictured him being puzzled, surprised, amused even. The verses swirled in my mind until all that remained was the subtle, quiet pulse of sleep.

"_Arald, nu vrei tu fruntea pe sînul meu s-o culci ?__  
__Tu zeu cu ochii negri... o, ce frumosi ochi ai !__  
__Las' sa-ti înlantui gîtul cu parul meu balai,__  
__Viata, tineretea mi-ai prefacut-o-n rai,__  
__Las' sa ma uit în ochii-ti ucizator de dulci."_

Morning came and brought along a cold light and more sober expectations. The morning after a tormenting night can be sometimes just as difficult. But in a different, crueler way because, as you're returning to a full and clear consciousness, to awareness and to your most authentic self, you begin to reason things out and by doing that, you question everything, every thought, every feeling, every decision or resolution from the night before. Briefly, even your own existence.

The first thing I did once I opened my eyes was to check the telephone that had remained stubbornly silent all night long. Still nothing. My heart sunk and I felt a frigid, stark disappointment, beyond any reason. I had a disquieting sensation that I had been fooling myself, that the night, with its traitorous lack of definition and clarity, had tricked me into the common delusion of those suffering from lovesickness.

In the brutal morning light, my last night's attempt to communicate with him seemed petty and puerile. I pictured him laughing at the pretentious mannerism, at the sweetish, almost caricatural romanticism of the silly poem. I imagined him feeling an icky, malicious compassion for me and for my totally inept gesture.

"_No, he is not like that..."_

I ignored the twist of pain and weariness that such a mental image gave me and tried to shake myself out of the unpleasant direction of my thoughts. A tap at the door that sounded loud in the quiet interrupted those morose ruminations. It was too early for the room-cleaning staff.

I opened the door and found myself face to face with a beaming Alice.

She was wearing a fuchsia colored coat, which stopped at her mid-thigh, some strange earrings suspiciously resembling little onions and at her feet was the craziest suitcase ever: a bright pink one with an imprint of giant daisies all over. She looked good. She was fresh and beautiful. Very much like Edward, who managed to remain elegant even in leisure clothes, Alice could wear any combination, no matter how flamboyant and get away with it. No one looking at her would have said that she was extravagant or unstylish. Quite the contrary.

She did not leave me much time to react; she entered quickly, in a clatter of bracelets, and gave me another happy smile that brightened the room.

"Sweetheart, you're okay!"

Reciprocating her smile in a way I hoped it looked welcoming, I stepped closer and received her tight hug. Her exhale of genuine relief was warm and fragrant against my cheek. She smelled like fresh air.

I was surprised and I shouldn't have. I knew he was going to come up with something to keep me supervised. But sending Alice all the way here seemed a bit extreme.

I didn't realize I'd spoken aloud until she planted her hands on her hips and glared in outrage.

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

Despite her delicate frame, in that stiff poise, trying to look severe with her hands on her hips, she appeared as if she could stand up against anyone.

"Well...you are here, aren't you?"

She widened her eyes in indignation and made a disbelieving sound.

"Edward didn't force me into anything, Bella. He didn't even ask me to come here. I offered! To keep you company, to make your staying more enjoyable! This is unfair! Is it so hard for you to believe that I came here because I have been missing you and I was dead worried about you?"

She was right. They shared an eerie bond, as if there were no real need for them to actually talk aloud with each other. And if there was anybody able to resist Edward, it was Alice. She did that quite successfully, too. By driving him crazy, I would say.

"Sorry..." I whispered. "Didn't mean to sound insensitive. I'm glad to see you..."

"Why did you disappear like that?"

"If we're having this conversation, I think I'll need some coffee first."

"Fine then." She assessed the room and my - gracious, no doubt - appearance with an uncompromising glance. "You get dressed while I take this - she waved towards her suitcase - into my room. We'll have breakfast downstairs."

"Why don't you stay with me? I mean, we could share this room, there's plenty of space..."

"Thanks, Bella, really, but Jaz and I are used to having really... hmm, long conversations on the telephone. We would be a constant bother to you."

"_Phone sex,"_ I thought and blushed instantly. _"Of course... you lucky pixie!"_

"Okay, then," I agreed wholeheartedly, unwilling for that specific discussion to be furthered.

Half an hour later, we were having a very nice cup of coffee in the restaurant downstairs.

"Well? Are you going to tell me now why did you come here?" she asked again in an impatient and vaguely demanding tone.

"Didn't Edward give you an account of our encounter?"

"He told me some. But we didn't actually meet. Our planes intersected in the air. He only said that you left after receiving – she waved dismissingly - something that led you into believing he was having an affair."

"That about sums it up."

"Whatever the reason Bella, you shouldn't have left like that."

"It seemed like a perfectly sensible idea at the time. I didn't tell anyone where and why I was going because I had no intention of arguing over the matter. My perspective was distorted, my mind was muddied. Everything I believed in was lying shattered on the ground. The anger, the hurt, the numbing shock were overwhelming. Nothing made much sense except for that overpowering need I had to be gone. I was blinded by sorrow..."

She reached for my hand over the table and I seized her hot hand in response.

"You should have called after you arrived here, Bella, you should have at least emailed. I think I've sent you a thousand mails! Why didn't you reply to me?"

"I haven't checked my email since I left home. Silly, I know, but I was afraid...I might receive you know, divorce papers. And I did leave contact information...in a letter to Edward. A letter he never found."

"He mentioned something about that, too. That is a bit of a mystery, but he will get to the bottom of it.

She sighed audibly.

"Anyway, there could not have been a worse moment for all this misunderstanding to happen, for you to disappear. There were problems at the rig, Bella. Big problems. Despite the careful safety practices, there were accidents beyond reckoning, delays, inexplicable glitches, aggravations. People, good employees were hurt. For a while, Edward practically lived on the rig. All the guys did, except for dad."

"He never told me any of this," I whispered, defeated." I wish he did..."

"Dad thought it was better to keep this from mom...and from the rest of us, girls, just to be on the safe side."

"And how come you know so much?"

Alice gave her shoulders a faint shrug and replied quite seriously.

"I've tricked Jasper into telling me. Anyway, Edward now suspects that the problems at the rig and you being deceived by a lie are somehow connected. He thinks that somebody attacks the family, both on professional and personal level."

As I thought of it now, there was something more in Edward's deliberate avoidance of the issue.

"When we couldn't get hold of you, it was I the one who called him and trust me, it wasn't an easy phone call to make... He rented a private plane to get home faster. He was frantic with worry, anguishing over possibilities, desperate for answers... He imagined the worst scenarios, Bella, he thought you had some sort of accident, that you were hurt, dead even! He nearly ripped my head off for not checking up on you!"

Her voice was musical, a chill, angry music.

"I've never seen him so angry before..."

I nodded in acknowledgement, but kept my head down after the last nod. Alice's eyes glittered too accusingly.

"He interviewed your maid, your neighbors, the doorman, even Rose and me like he was the Great Inquisitor or something. For crying out loud, Bella, he yelled at mom!"

I wanted to defend myself, to say that I did not mean for any of that to happen, that I, too had been wounded in that charade but I couldn't. I shut my mouth, ashamed and worried. Alice also kept a sullen silence for a moment.

"And then, mercifully, he got trace of you..."

"How did he find me?"

"Didn't he tell you?"

"Not specifically..."

"Well, at first he didn't want to call your folks, not wanting to scare them. He did, however, want to call the police and the hospitals. But, while he turned the apartment upside down in search for clues, he noticed that your passport was gone. I think at that point, in his despair, he considered using his sensitive contacts to track it down, your passport, I mean, since your credit cards or cell were out of the question. But he imagined you would not have left without letting at least one of your parents know were you could be found. So he went to see Charlie..."

"He _went_ to Forks?"

"Yeah. He said it was better to talk with your dad in person...and I went with him. To soften Charlie, you know... Edward had to admit he knew nothing about you, that you inexplicably left without a word to anyone."

"And what did Charlie say?"

Alice put her fingers in front of her lips, mimicking my dad's moustache and impersonated his voice. Poorly and in a sour-funny way but that still made my chest feel tight.

"_What did you do to my little girl, boy, to make her leave like that? _However, he did not fried Edward too much; even to your dad it was clear that Edward was sick with worry. He told Edward you had left him a message about a sudden visit to Angela and things should have been easy next. Except they haven't."

"What do you mean? Why?"

"Well, Charlie did not know where your friend was living. Your message only had said 'in Europe'. So next, our little procession, now made of three, went to see Angela's parents. And there we faced some serious challenge! You should have seen us, all three of us, seated in the Webers' living room, hands on the knees, like chastised kindergarten kids, severely scrutinized by a very intransigent Mrs. Weber."

That picture would have been indeed almost funny if it hadn't been for the guilt assailing me.

"And all this because apparently, Angela has some deranged ex-husband and her parents do everything in their power to keep her safe from that jerk. That includes, of course, keeping her current whereabouts a secret. It took a great deal of effort from Edward to persuade them to reveal to us Angela's location. That situation, a husband in search for his wife who had left him without a word, resembled too much with their daughter's own story. They were extremely suspicious. Edward had to use all his magical charm in order to convince them and that says something! Plus, Charlie had to guarantee solemnly for his son's-in-law integrity."

"What did he do after that?"

"Really, haven't you guys talked _at all_?"

"Not that much. He was kind of...angry with me..."

"Well, under the current circumstances, it is hardly surprising that he is upset..."

"Please Alice, go on."

"He insisted that Mr. and Mrs. Weber be discreet about his inquiries, asked them not to inform Angela; he claimed that between you and him it was just a lover's quarrel, that he only wanted to make sure you were okay. Which of course, they were able to confirm, since Angela had told them over the phone about you and your visit."

"When was this happening?"

"Three weeks ago...maybe a little more."

"I wonder why he didn't come here right away..."

"I can only guess from this point, Bella. After we had returned from Forks, he was constantly in a foul mood. Any attempt to discuss with him only exacerbated that disposition. From the little I managed to pull out from him with my own specific methods - she said that with a grin – I'd say he was waiting for you to return. He gave you the space you apparently needed; otherwise, you would not have left. I suspect, but I'm not sure, that he kept an eye on you from distance, though. Then just like that, at the beginning of last week, he announced us that he was leaving for Sweden."

"_Jake..."_ I thought. _"It was then when he had found out about Jake..." _

I was on a sudden grateful that Edward hadn't told her anything about Jake. I was not sure of that, of course. I sneaked an embarrassed glance at her.

If she knew, she hid it well.

The saddest smile curved my lips and tightened my throat.

"Knowing all this now makes me feel terrible," I confessed quietly.

"But how could you possibly believe that Edward was capable of cheating on you?"

I looked for a moment through the wall, past the wall, out to forever, and briefly lost myself in recollections of the past.

"He used to call me every day. Then every other day. Then once a week... He became distant, sullen, stressed, and tired but I hoped that, after the tough beginning of every newborn business, his mood would improve. However, as the days turned to weeks and then months and there was no change in his behavior, I suspected that things were not going as smoothly as they were supposed to. In time, I started to truly hate that blasted oil rig."

"Everyone brings home an invisible burden from work at the end of the day, Bella. Surely, you know that... Why should Edward be any different? He is only a man, you know?"

That sweet pain, which I always felt when I thought of him, resurfaced in my heart. _"It must have been so hard for him..."_

When Alice didn't continue her reprimands, I went on.

"So pretty soon I began thinking that he had married me just because I was malleable, quiet and compliant, someone he could control, push aside when he wanted me out of the way, yet someone who would provide a homey and cozy atmosphere when he did deign to return home."

"Don't be ridiculous, Bella!"

"Yeah, Bella. B like in _boring_ and _banal_... With that frame of mind, it wasn't at all hard for me to believe the infidelity scenario. And you know what they say about a picture and its worth..."

"You're wrong in your negative self-assessment. Conversely, from my point of view, the opposite is quite true."

She probably noticed my befuddled expression, because she further explained in very definitive manner.

"Social engineering cannot override biology, Bella. We, acting like strong modern women, have fought for years to gain economic and social independence. We have been shouting big-strong-sad-feminist slogans calling for freedom, equal rights and wages with men and we have been demanding autonomy and more power for decades now. Yet the more power we get, the unhappier we become. We consciously devote ourselves to dominating men, yet on a visceral level, we despise men who can be dominated. What we really want is strong men who have the courage to whip out their dicks and show us they've got what it takes to keep us safe. Of course, I don't mean that literally. Although that would not be bad at all," she added with a mischievous little smile.

"Don't belittle yourself for doing what most women - openly admitted or not - crave to do. We long to be protected and nurtured and cared about, but refuse to accept that we are therefore, vulnerable. So we keep denying that we need men stronger than ourselves; men able to surround us, envelop us and protect us from a world that often is harsh and brutal.

You on the other hand, freely chose to submit yourself to such a man. A strong, protective, supportive and ultimately dominant man. That doesn't mean you are, for some reason, weak or unable to stand up for yourself. You are not psychologically flawed nor are you a disgrace to women. It takes trust, spirit and strength to achieve that kind of devotion, the kind that ensures in the long-term a vibrant, connected, evolvable relationship that deeply satisfies both you and your man."

"That was quite a speech..." I observed, smiling, "but isn't it dangerous to generalize like that? I mean, there are obviously some unhealthy variants of the male-led relationship."

"I am not advocating for the kinky stuff, and I don't take lightly the subject of women's oppression, abuse or discrimination either. This is shallower that that... This is about dominant men that turn us on. And if they were respected, encouraged and allowed to be the men they were put on this earth to be, they would be more apt to respect who and what we are as women!"

I gave a little laugh. She was passionate about the subject.

"Since when do you have such traditionalist views on gender roles?"

She tilted her head and smiled at me in a very sweet way.

"I guess there's more to me than the pretty package!"

We looked at each other briefly with silent understanding, in a sort of calm communion of souls. She was as close to me as a sister.

"I am sorry Alice, for not confiding in you... Perhaps all this would not have happened."

"Whatever can be done," she said softly, "can be undone."

"Not always," I said regretfully, under a new assault of doubt and insecurity.

"There is nothing that a little feminine ingenuity can't solve."

Her voice rang vibrant with exuberance.

"I wish I could share your optimism on the matter. You haven't seen him... He was...well, terrible."

There was an edge of laughter in Alice's tone. "Let me guess...no sex, huh?"

She was more perceptive than I wanted to admit. She continued to watch me, making me extremely uncomfortable as her dark gaze remained intent. It was of no use to deny it.

"It wasn't about sex..."

"It is _always_ about sex. Or the lack of it, for the matter. We should pray that things stay forever this way between men and women. When the sexual connection goes awry, a relationship is in danger to slide into a stale, platonic, flat and bored camaraderie. However, this is not the case between you and Edward."

She took hold of my hand once more and her bright gaze held again an undercurrent of mischief.

"If you want peace, prepare yourself for war! You wait till I get you out of this broody mood and have you shining and smiling again!"

She leaned herself over the table and added in a fake-serious voice.

"Trust me – that cocky brother of mine won't even know what hit him!"

I found that I was laughing, as much as the small joke was worth. Alice laughed with me and her laughter was a delight to hear: crystalline, brilliant and free.

"How about we got out of here? Did some shopping, huh?"

She was all but bouncing on her toes and I barely bit back a wail. I had forgotten about her shopping-fuelled lifestyle and inexhaustible reserves of energy.

"What are you, the Duracell bunny? Aren't you tired after your flight?"

"Or we could go back to your room, do some more moping and dissect your love life..."

I heaved an unenthusiastic sigh of surrender.

Satisfied that she had won that exchange, Alice looked pleased with herself.

"Stockholm, beware! Here we come!"

In the evening, when I finally returned to my room, feeling after the full day with Alice like a contestant after a decathlon trial, I found to my sheer delight, a sign from Edward. A sign that allowed my heart to start beating again, allowed me to breathe.

One perfect, majestic calla lily and a note.

"_Come, Harold, your sweet brow against my bosom lean;__  
__Thou god with eyes of darkness... how wonderful they shine!__  
__But let me round your neck my golden hair entwine...__  
__My life and youth your presence does in the sky enshrine.__  
__Oh, let me gaze into your eyes of sweet and fatal sheen."(*)_

I wanted to call him that instant but refrained again. I despised my cowardice, but I could not defeat it. Not did I try too hard, since he was seemingly responsive to the text messages maneuver. So I began to type my answer, stopping from time to time to admire the beautiful lily.

"_Thank you for the magnificent flower. Is this a silent Victorian message?"_

The reply came surprisingly quickly.

"_Yes. From the same age as your poem."_

Calla lily – the symbol of purity, holiness and faith, also carried at times a very personal and overtly sensual connotation.

"_From all its meanings, which one should I choose?"_

"_Is it pink? I asked for pink."_

Pink it was.

"_Yes."_

"_That says it all then."_

"Ever so elusive..." I thought to myself, "Let's play around a bit, shall we?"

I typed my response, smiling wickedly.

"_I take it that this is a message of lustful ardor then."_

"_You should know better than to ask, but yes, it is."_

"_But what interpretation should I give to the huge, heavy pistil springing from the lily's center? What if I get its significance wrong?"_

"_Isabella, I'm in a meeting and this conversation makes me feel uncomfortably...tight. Go to sleep now like a good girl and dream of me."_

"_Yes, sir."_

I did exactly that. With a blissful smile on my lips, too.

The next couple of days passed in a blur. Alice and I explored the city on foot, went sightseeing and of course, shopping. Alice, under the pretext that we should exploit our staying to the maximum, dragged me into every possible shop. We had been in so many stores and boutiques that I couldn't keep straight just where we had bought what, but that didn't really matter. What mattered was that we had fun, that Alice was pleased and that I was too tired at the end of the day to let my mind wander into dangerous places. The single apparent problem was the steadily growing mound of bags and packages that were gathering in our rooms.

On the third day since Alice's arrival, I went to her room to take her to breakfast. When she did not answer the door, I entered and saw her sitting cross-legged on the bed. She was whispering into the telephone, shooting glances in my direction. Her tone sounded increasingly worried. She soon hung up and I quickly asked.

"Are there any news?"

Alice gave a quick shake of her head. "Nothing conclusive yet. I know they're working on it."

She was avoiding my look and she wasn't going to give me any details, I could tell.

"Was that Edward?"

"Yes, he was."

"What did he say? Why didn't you put me on?"

"He said he'll you call himself in the morning. In _his_ morning. It must be midnight in Seattle now."

I wondered what was it that needed to be kept from me. Again.

I pushed her.

"I wish you didn't do that..."

"What Bella?"

"Treat me like that. Keeping me in the dark. I am not a mindless child who needs to be told fairy tales. I find that demeaning."

"I really don't know anything, Bella. It was Edward I spoke with, not Jasper, remember? He dropped only a hint from which I drew the conclusion that he didn't trust the telephone lines from the office."

"Why did he call then?"

"It was _I_ who called him. I needed to know how things are."

"At the office at midnight?"

"Ugh, Bella, put your sword back, will you? I'm not the enemy here. I tried first his cell, then your home number and finally his direct office line. He was having a talk with dad and the guys. And a nightcap, I suspect."

"I'm sorry. I guess I was just jealous of you for speaking with him."

"Why don't you call him yourself?"

"I can't. It has to be him."

Alice looked at me a little bemused.

"If I were the first one to call after our tumultuous meeting, that would be simply...well, lame."

Of course, text messages were inherently excluded from the 'lame' category.

Alice laughed in response. "That is not exactly an iron logic, but I guess I can relate to it."

"Is it _that_ serious, you think? I mean...telephone tapping?"

Alice stood up from the bed and strode about the room.

"No, Bella, I think Edward just wants to play safe, that's all. He didn't sound too concerned. Anyway, you should know that I am leaving tomorrow."

She paced back and forth, passing by me repeatedly as she began to prepare her – many now - suitcases.

This felt like déjà -vu. Another one leaving. Leaving me here.

"Why?" I asked dryly.

"Your lord and master will come soon, there's no need for me to stay here with you any longer. Besides, I miss mine like crazy..."

"Has he told you that he is coming?"

"No. I just know it. That's why I called him in the first place. I have a sense that all this is going to end soon. And because this is our last day together here, let's spoil ourselves! My treat!"

"What do you have in mind?" I asked, a bit detached.

She turned to look at me on her way into the bathroom and mouthed the word. _"Spa."_ Then grinned hugely.

While I was preparing for bed that night, I reflected amused on the variety of masochistic procedures through which a woman pushes herself in the name of beauty. For a good part of the day, my body had been brushed, peeled, scrubbed, massaged and waxed and that was not even bad compared to other, more radical, methods. My limbs seemed made of cotton and I could barely keep my eyes open.

It was a pleasant exhaustion, though. The second best kind.

Just as I was drifting off to sleep, my precious new cell phone finally rang. I gave a start but let it ring for a couple more times before I answered.

"Yes," I said quietly, in a fake composure, as though that were just another ordinary phone conversation.

"Good evening...Isabella." He paused before speaking my name in that infectious, rich tone of his, which instantly made me faint with longing.

"Good evening, Edward. Or should I say Clark Kent?"

"Excuse me?"

"Well, Alice's presence here obviously turns you into the superman you mentioned in our last hm, discussion."

"I had to make sure you won't indulge yourself with any more imprudent activities."

"Unlike shopping till you drop from your feet?"

"That is harmless enough."

"Not if you fatally succumbed to it."

"Sorry," he laughed. "Can't help you there. That's Alice's form of penalty, not mine."

"How about yours?" I asked, tentatively.

"I haven't decided yet. But I'm still upset with you. How is Mr. Black, by the way?"

"Well, he's in the bathroom right now, but he's sending his regards."

Wow. I was getting brave enough to tease him.

There was a pause before he answered, his voice full of silky, lazy menace.

"You like playing with the fire, don't you, little girl?"

"What if I do?"

"Then perhaps it is time I took you by surprise again with another one of my superhero gadgets..."

His authoritative nature was so sexy in its arrogance that sometimes I truly wished I could find a defense against it. Now was not one of those moments, though; I purely savored the little shivers of illicit pleasure so effortlessly triggered by his voice.

"You should know that leaving me here was punishment enough... Perhaps more than you think."

"I'm sorry, but I still think it was best that way."

I wanted his rich, bone-melting voice to reassure me, to caress me with whispering sweet nothings.

"How is home?"

"Not the same without you. Everything is in its place, ready for my use, but there is something unpleasantly austere about all that stillness. You are the heart and soul of our home, Isabella."

I flushed with warm pleasure. The brief praise felt like balm to my lacerated emotions and simply listening to his voice was unutterably soothing.

"I would love to be there with you." I confessed quietly, with aching tenderness.

"I've called your parents."

He might just as well have thrown a bucket of ice-cold water over my head.

"Oh."

"I've told them you're fine, that _we're_ fine, but that you decided to stay a bit longer to help Ms. Weber through some rough time."

He made a pause then added coolly in a very calm statement.

"I lied to them."

"I see... Thank you."

"You should call them too. I did my best to reassure them but it is not the same with hearing from you directly. Charlie did not buy my story for one second."

My voice wavered.

"I will call them."

You could count on him always to be the responsible one. Nothing like me.

A few seconds of silence passed; I could hear my heartbeat in my ears.

When he spoke again, his voice dropped a few tones.

"Your notebook made an interesting lecture."

I blushed violently again. A gasp broke from my lips and I was momentarily lost for words. He had my notebook. Of course, he must have found it when he had retrieved my stuff from Angela's. And kept it. I was deeply embarrassed, since, beside the various expressions of my pain, it also contained written embodiments of my need for him. My physical need. My desire for him. Very graphic fantasies. Brazen. Uncensored.

"What I have been writing in there...that's very personal, Edward. You shouldn't have..."

"Between spouses there must be no secrets, love..." he interrupted, a bit sternly. "I found it very useful since it provided me access to your innermost thoughts. Now I have a different understanding of the _subtlet__ies _of your mind."

I kept silent, still mortified.

"I'll be a better husband; that I can promise."

"You are that already..."

"And I have every intention to fulfill your other...deep seated needs. Your fantasies are amazingly intense, love. I think a fast reinstatement of my marital rights is required or soon enough I'll go insane."

I blushed from pleasure this time. My pulse quickened.

"Edward," I breathed.

He had caught the small inflection in my voice. So, he brought me down to earth.

"You must allow me a couple more days to finish solving things up here, then I'll come for you."

"How is that going? Have you discovered who's got the letter?"

"I am not quite done with that yet but I have some suspicions."

"Will you tell me about it? About what's been going on?"

"We'll talk about it sometime, when all the dust is settled."

I wanted to go home so badly. If it were up to me, I would have got on the first plane.

"Are you sure about coming here? I mean, I could return with Alice if you don't want me traveling by myself..." My plea came out flavored with a hint of despair. "She's leaving in the morning, you know... Perhaps we could find..."

"Quite sure. There are still some loose ends there that need to be tied up. Will you be alright for a few more days?"

"Yes."

"A man of brains should never repeat himself but I cannot help it. Therefore, I must ask. Will you behave?"

"Yes."

"Will you keep in mind that it will be I and no one else who give pleasure to the woman I love?"

"Yes."

"You needed to hear me saying that, didn't you?"

I knew what he meant but still asked just to make him say it.

"What, Edward?"

"That I love you."

"Yes." I paused. "Very much so."

"Any fool can say the words. I prefer to demonstrate them to you instead. I'm anxious to bring you home and everything to get back to normal."

"Me too."

"OK, then. I let you to your sleep. I know it's late on your side of the world."

"And Bella..."

There was a subtle sensuality in the way he formed my name, almost as if he were tasting it. I was thrilled to hear the affectionate version of my name from him after so long.

"Yes, Edward."

"I _do_ love you."

When I woke up next morning, a new text from him awaited me.

"_I've found your letter." _

**Thank you kindly for reading.**

(*)The English translation made by Corneliu M.


	13. Chapter 13

**I own nothing.**

Edward sat very still in a leather swivel chair behind his massive bureau and watched the computer screen in front of him. He was frowning and there was a vague trace of sullenness around his mouth.

His office was big but while abundant in space, it lacked in adornments. It had scarcely any furniture and there were no rugs or carpeting. There were no paintings, art posters or photographs to bring some color to the white, bare walls, nor were there any plants. That created an overwhelmingly severe air, in sharp contrast with the opulence of the other offices and the elegant architectural design of the building itself.

Aside from the impeccably neat desk, the rest of the sparse furnishings consisted of a couple of guest chairs and a conference table with room for eight people in the corner. Several large windows, without curtains or drapes, marched along the wall, framing grey and cloudy views of the city. Every aspect of that room spoke of intransigence and discipline.

That decorative austerity gave Emmett a constant reason for mockery. He used to say 'you can afford to spend a buck or two on a decent office; you know, some paintings, man, some carpets' and he called Edward's office 'the hermit's cell'.

The other employees called it simply 'the torture chamber'.

It wasn't that Edward didn't enjoy beautiful things or comfort. It wasn't that he was a skinflint, as Emmett joked, either. It wasn't that the appearance of his office kept the employees on their toes and the business partners wary. The main reason was that by negative comparison, his home seemed each and every time he returned to it, like a paradise regained.

At some point, his thoughts drifted from the sterile report he was reading. Motionless, he watched the screen without actually seeing the words, with a pensiveness that seemed painful, until the screen saver went on. It was his third day with hardly any sleep and that was beginning to affect him. He firmly closed the lid of his MacBook and moved by the window where he stood, arms folded, legs spread apart, staring out with an inscrutable expression at the stream of people walking down below. But he barely took in the view; fragmented thoughts and memories pummeled him.

Emotions - so scary, messy, and inconvenient.

He felt an unsettling mixture of feelings, a peculiar blend of tenderness and rage, resentment and adoration towards Isabella but also some amount of guilt and remorse about his own behavior. The surge of jealousy had been so strong it had made him turn nasty. Blinded by distrust and suspicion, he'd been at some point the typical embodiment of a husband who blusters and shouts only to hide his overwhelming sense of helplessness and fear. Fear of manhandling a delicate situation. Fear of his own unpredictable reactions. Fear of losing her.

He had disguised the pain provoked by Isabella's interest in another man in anger. The feeling of pain in itself angered him even more. Still, he contained the beast and did not allow himself to vent his anger fully. Denying intimacy did not help restore and reaffirm his authority and ownership of her, either. He refused himself that satisfaction, which left him in a bitter, frustrated state and further alienated them from each other.

He was not entirely regretful about the way he had behaved towards Bella, though. A woman sometimes requires a firm reminder of what his husband's expectations of her are and that was a compelling argument in justification of his unbecoming conduct. And Edward knew he could be just as powerful and passionate as necessary in dealing with his woman, all the way to harsh and severe if needed, reining her in with a few well-chosen words, a stern look, by saying 'no' or simply with the force of his personality and commanding presence.

One has to be strong to be kind and considerate.

Edward believed that bending Isabella to his will was justified only in matters of severe importance, or in ways that excited or pleased him in erotic contexts. She might have to be on her toes as a result, but he always ensured that her attitude was more like dancing than walking on eggshells. There was none of the nonsense of imposing on her something arbitrary just to show her that he could do it.

Edward breathed deeply. From of all the burdening responsibilities that sat on his shoulders - real, imagined, existing or potential - his wife was the most important. As long as she was happy, he was willing to carry that load indefinitely.

Jacob Black turned out to be a difficult lump to swallow down. Edward knew now unequivocally that Isabella was innocent but he was still enraged and so primitively jealous that right then and there he could not avoid being assailed by a different kind of doubt.

He had come a while ago to the striking comprehension that life as a married man was deceptively simple. It only required intuitive and thorough understanding of one woman. However, understanding a woman, who could be at times just like an esoteric creature from another world, was more art than science. Male immaturity and self-absorption have no place in marriage, so he did his best to be a good husband, to cherish and nurture his wife, to be considerate, thoughtful, and attentive to meeting her needs – though not always her immediate wants and caprices.

As a result, he expected her always to come to him for acceptance, understanding and support, regardless of the circumstances or the situation. Not to hesitate to reveal her fears and vulnerabilities directly to him. And he needed her motivation for this to be that he had consistently shown her that he could calm her frights, soothe her stress, and eliminate her insecurities. This might give many a man a sense of power, but for Edward it had nothing to do with power. It was not about letting his ego run wild. Instead, it brought him joy and satisfaction, since that way he could ensure more balance, peace and security into her life. And, more than any other factor, that validated him as a man.

Was her self-imposed exile a sign that he had failed in his duty as a husband? Was Isabella's choice to run instead of coming to him in a moment of crisis, an indication that he had been inadequate, had disappointed her, had been insensitive or less than fully loving to her? Or was it just another test, the 'do you have the cojones to deal with me?' kind of test, the kind that most women, however sweet and tenderhearted, will - inevitably and periodically - through the involuntariness of their womanly nature, almost as a matter of biological rhythm, put their man through?

If it were only that, Isabella gone to the challenging mode, he could easily turn this to the most delicious fun of all.

But what if it were not? What if her trust and confidence in him had been altered? Could that presumed damage be healed? Could he properly provide again the framework, the structure, the intimate metaphysics that could repair the absolutes and the foundation of the strong marriage that he and Isabella had come to create together?

Their good-bye, intensely moving and equally disturbing, haunted him still. She had been like a little girl - confused, insecure, uncertain of how to react, so obviously needing to be held tight, in comfort, and claimed, and kept safe from the world and he had to fight once more in order to keep himself from giving to her exactly that.

Edward felt his body quicken and his breathing grew uneven. Dangerous memories. Best not to let them intrude.

His mind sharply returned to the moment when the insight struck him like a thunderbolt out of a clear sky. When even before he knew, he knew and what had been germinating in the back of his mind suddenly came to him. Someone wanted to hurt him and his family.

His insides felt once again absolutely drained, voided by rage. He looked at the time and returned to his desk with long, fast strides. He buzzed the intercom connecting him with his assistant and spoke rapidly in a low grim voice.

"Tanya, I'm expecting Mr. Scott with a companion. Please, let them in the moment they arrive."

"Mr. Scott, the chief of security?"

"That's the only Mr. Scott I know."

"The meeting is not scheduled. What shall I do about your other appointments?"

"I'm aware of that. Postpone them and hold all my calls." Edward instructed tersely.

A few minutes later, the door opened to admit Tanya, followed by two men. The resonance of their footsteps in the gigantic room made everything feel larger and emptier at the same time. It was like the scariness of the echo of something you'd rather not hear.

Edward rose and shook hands with them, then motioned them to the visitor's chairs in front of his desk. No further pleasantries were exchanged. They refused any refreshments and Tanya, flashing her professional smile, left the room.

Only then Scott introduced his companion to Edward. That second man was a redoubtable specialist in security assessments, bodyguard protection, surveillance and so on. He was serious, reserved and stern, even quieter than Scott, and had the bearing of an unpretentious authority about him.

"Is it safe to talk?"

"We swept the entire floor last night, Mr. Cullen, after the cleaning crew left. We didn't find any listening devices. The land lines are clean."

"Good," Edward said and his shoulders relaxed briefly. "What about the rest? Did you find anything?"

"We spent the whole week hunting for concrete information on several directions..." Scott started, composed and unflinching.

"And judging by your expression I don't think I'm going to like what you're about to tell me. Fill me in." With that abrupt request, Edward leaned back, focusing all his attention on his interlocutor.

"The damage assessments made it clear that the accidents were intended only to disrupt the regular activity and not to destroy the rig's structure. We're talking about someone with an intimate knowledge of all matters concerning such a complex superstructure as an oil-drilling platform, someone who has nerves of ice.

The sabotages at the rig had to have been done by an insider, so we checked more thoroughly the background of each and every one that is currently working or was previously employed there. We followed their movements, their expenses, their phone records several months back and it was a tremendous amount of work. We come up with these suspects."

Scott extended Edward a thin file containing three résumé-like documents. A photo and brief information on each person. Two men and a woman. The faces said nothing to Edward.

"The men occupy small, inconspicuous positions and they where seen together quite often. But that is not exactly the kind of behavior to raise suspicions. It is common and expected for men working together in close environments to befriend one another. It's the woman who made us alert. She's this one's – Scott pointed one of the men's photo – girlfriend and although she is not employed by your company, we checked her anyway. Therefore, we learned that she has traveled extensively to Europe in the last few months. To Italy. To the city of Volterra, to be exact."

Edward leaned further in his chair and nearly smiled.

"The Volturi." he observed calmly.

"Although that may be of some relevance to you, it is not exactly a smoking gun. Actually, it was the direction you pointed to us the one that provided more substantial evidence. Only that it was not so easily obtainable. We needed help." With that, Scott became quiet, allowing the second man to intervene for the first time.

"You need to understand, Mr. Cullen, that what we had to do to obtain this information is highly...unorthodox. Unethical. Unusable as evidence in court if you ever decide to pursue your adversaries legally."

"I see..."

"You did say to obtain info 'by any means'... and that is exactly what we did, sir," the man said with the calm of the uninvolved professional, emotionally separated from the events, knowing of them but not essentially implicated. That being said, he gave Edward another folder.

Edward reached for the second, much thicker file and spent twenty minutes silently reading through it. He had never been a restless man, but now he was frozen still, his eyes scanning the sheets of paper like a pale green laser.

"I suspected as much," Edward muttered pensively. "There seem to be two convergent directions of interest here," he absently observed, frowning in thought. Finally, he looked up at his interlocutors.

"Could I have the content of this folder in electronic form?" One phone call later, Edward's request was met.

They spent the second half of the meeting discussing their options. It was getting on towards six-thirty in the evening, and they had been talking nonstop for almost two hours. Twice Tanya had called and each time Edward asked her in mild irritation to cancel his other meetings.

The first practical decision they made was that Scott should return to the rig the next day, neutralize those two men and the courier lady by cutting off their access to the platform and secure the operations in the best possible way.

"We will investigate further, Mr. Cullen," Scott said. "There could be more men infiltrated than the two we've discovered. We will, of course, keep you informed."

Edward nodded his agreement.

"How do you wish the second matter to be handled, Mr. Cullen?"

"I will do it personally."

"Are you sure is it wise, sir?"

Edward bit back a rush of irritation and replied tersely.

"Who better?" He achieved a placid smile and added resolutely, "It has to be me." _"And prudence be damned,"_ he added in his mind.

"It's up to you."

"Indeed." Edward nodded.

"If I may ask, sir, how do you intent to do that?"

A red sly smile touched Edward's perfect lips, and with a fierce movement, he closed the file in front of him.

"By voluntarily entering into the viper's nest."

With that, the meeting was over and Edward accompanied his visitors to the elevators. Tanya had left for the day, dismissed an hour earlier.

When he was alone once more, Edward leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes, seeking distance from the unpleasant facts gathered neatly in the folders on his desk. Silently and at length, he cursed the Volturi for everything he could think of, ranging back over several generations of their ancestors. He did not like the situation, not for a moment, but in the light of the new, confirmed information, he was not as worried as before about that threat against the family business. There were means, countermeasures, ways to defend it.

He simply had to confront Aro and settle their accounts once and for all. Aro was going to do what was best for him. In that respect, that bastard was always predictable.

But that was, for the time being of ancillary importance. Edward weighed the folders with Scott's findings in his hand for a moment then locked them in the safe. After that, he unlocked a desk-drawer and pulled out a thick spiral-bound notebook. He spent the time left till his next planned move totally immersed in Isabella's world.

When the time had come, he stood up, went to the small bathroom adjoining his office and refreshed his appearance. He stepped back into the office and after a slight hesitation, locked the notebook in the safe. Next, he packed his laptop, put on his overcoat and left the room, looking both present and oddly detached.

Half an hour later, he was standing in front of an apartment door with no nameplate.

He gave himself a minute then rang the doorbell. He fought to suppress the urge to break down the door instead of patiently wait for her to get it. He could hear her footsteps, the brisk clacking of a woman's heels on a tiled surface. He schooled his features into a pleasant, self-controlled expression and put the beginning of a friendly smile on his lips.

"Edward, what a surprise," she said, but her voice did not hold any. She stood nonchalantly in the doorway, wearing a peignoir in a pink silk moiré and her developing smile was hopeful, welcoming. She was a slender woman, taller than most for she stood almost at eye level with her late visitor.

"Good evening, Tanya." His expression was affable beneath the cold green eyes and there was nothing to be learned from the even timbre of his voice.

"Please, come in..." she too quickly invited, giving him her great dark eyes, within the bounds of decency, but just.

Edward felt her looking at him a bit too long, her eyes fast and grabby, as he passed by her. Behind his back, she let her glistening tongue coil on her lips in anticipation and eagerly followed him inside.

"Let me take your coat. I was about to have a drink. Would you like one?"

"Yes, why not? Scotch. Straight. " His voice was calm, even. Deceivingly relaxed.

She giggled nervously and twisted like a stroked cat to look at him. "I know that! I wouldn't be much of a personal assistant if I didn't!"

She disappeared in the next room to fix the drinks. Edward turned his head and looked around, the room he had entered moving by his vision at a rate that seemed slow to him, the details intensely sharp, although his expression held nothing but the polite, detached air of a disinterested spectator. There was something in the air, like a constant, scented emanation of estrogen; this was the private space of a shrewish empress, a pacing tigress, swift to attack any who threatened the sating of her appetites.

She lived better than most yet there was something sickening about the place, aside from the fragrant air. There were too many shades of pink.

Tanya approached him in a whisper of silk and he could smell her perfume as she came from behind, holding two glasses half filled with whiskey. It was dense. Conspicuous. Invasive.

"I'm sorry, Edward, I ran out of Glenfiddich. I'll fix that but you'll have to settle for less until then…" Indubitably, there was a certain smokiness in her voice. He appeared not to have caught her unsubtly implied invitation to come again; his smile and manner were still steadily composed in an amiable countenance.

When she handed him the glass, her fingers touched his a little, and the skin there was dry and hot like a parchment left in the sun. He truly noticed for the first time the appearance of her hand. It was shapely, but the violent nail polish and the protruding veins gave it the look of an old woman's hand. A witch's hand. He stiffened, but did not flinch out from under her touch.

"Please, have a seat over here…" She made a graceful gesture with her hand towards the nearby sofa.

She was moving about the room with easy, surefooted grace in small pink slippers whose heel-height was extreme. Her movements were long, flowing strides, and she was careful always to remain within his sight. Her body was almost motionless from the waist up and there was a poignant, confident elegance to her gait, to her long legs and narrow ankles. She was svelte, but there was no angularity anywhere.

She finally seated herself too, fortunately not beside him, but in an armchair to his left. She crossed her legs, a little carelessly, and seemed unaware that her robe-de-chambre had loosened, leaving her peachy thigh exposed almost to the hip.

"_Come on, Tanya, don't reveal too much too quickly..."_

When his eyes lingered on her skin, she covered herself, excusing without sincerity.

"Please forgive my attire, Edward. I wasn't expecting company."

She smiled at him languidly from that chair, as though she were generously forgiving him for coming unannounced. Her apology was a proper remark for a segue into the reason of his visit but she did not use the opportunity. She began instead to twitch lazily her slippered foot. It was not a movement of impatience. She was not in a hurry to find out why he had come. She was not in a hurry at all.

Tanya was so intensely affected by his presence that it had taken every ounce of self-control to appear unmoved. She almost could not believe that he was here in the flesh. Of course, she had been fantasizing about a scenario like that constantly...how one day he would show up at her door and ravish her in a thousand different ways.

Her obsession always stayed with her, eating at her, and Edward was never far from her thoughts. She kept the mental images of him sharp and polished in a sort of idolatrous portrait and she could see him in her mind's eye at any time. Too bad that he could not be corrupted by salacious behavior and she had been smart not to attempt that. He had to come to her from his own will.

She turned her head towards him, and her hungry gaze slipped down over his wide, powerful chest to his flat abdomen. His dark suit was beautifully cut as ever, further enhancing the undeniable attributes of his perfect male figure. Every detail was flawless, from the impeccable tie knot to the white line of his cuffs and the discreet gleam of his wristwatch. She just could not jerk her gaze away, even though she did not allow her eyes to rest on the fly of his pants; instead, she stealthily skimmed on to those long, muscled legs.

She had deployed her body as a lethal weapon and had feasted on men while waiting for him. Poor men, wealthy men, handsome men, ugly, prominent or anonymous men. She had sunk her nails into their backs and had cried her rapture but they all miserably failed in making her forget Edward. Not that she had ever wished to forget about him; he was her ideal, her icon and all those men nothing but insignificant halts, pit stops on her journey to her precious destination.

Yet she had diligently disciplined herself. Careful not to compromise her image, her appeal to Edward, she had kept her liaisons discreet. She had never brought her occasional lovers home. Had never allowed to be contacted spontaneously or in other way than she herself indicated.

For years, she had dedicated herself to her job, carefully stifling those parts of her personality that didn't fit the image. With her elegant clothes and self-confident manner, the lasting general impression she produced upon the outer world was one of extreme professionalism, soberness and proficiency; she was the not-to-mess-with kind of PA, cool under pressure, frighteningly efficient and never showing any hint of nervousness around her boss. Part of her job was to shield Edward from unnecessary interruptions, guarding the gates to his inner sanctum. She protected him fiercely from pestering persons, opportunists and other time consuming incidents but she was very skilled at not appearing to interfere.

When in Brazil she had managed wonderfully in keeping even that insipid wife of his away from him; she was particularly pleased with herself about that.

Although caught in her thoughts, Tanya subsidiarily registered his absolute calmness; his relaxed detachment did not escape her, but she put down his apparent lack of agitation, of uneasiness to his inner strength. Any man making his first move on a woman would be at least in a small measure nervous. But not her Edward. She was almost proud of him, of his self-control. She felt herself smiling again.

He had so many layers, though she suspected few were able to discover that. The man was a mass of contradictions; he concealed his ruthlessness behind smooth, cosmopolitan conduct, by being outwardly polite and extremely charming but Tanya had little doubts about the real nature of the man. There was too much about him repressed and kept between the lines, a subsurface violence almost always held at bay, but very much alive and she doubted that he recognized any authority other than his own.

She had always sensed an intense, smoldering sexuality beneath that cool, dark remoteness of his and she had asked herself many times whether he was fully satisfied in that regard. Especially when angry, sexual energy exuded from him in waves. She had often wondered what he was like when he lost it, when that fiery intensity got the best of him. She wished she could be there, to see and hear and feel his mysterious ferocity as it erupted, instead of watching him try to strangle and stifle himself into the 'calm' and 'in control' and utterly boring cardboard cutout of a man that properly fitted the standards of society.

The malignant satisfaction she was feeling was beyond imagination: the hottest man, who could have any woman he wanted with a single glance from those icy eyes, had finally come to her. No woman in her right mind would be able to resist that unapologetic, ruthless charm. His commanding presence, his dominant behavior always revved her up. Oh, if only he knew the things she would do for him!

Of a sudden, she was very, very hungry. She wanted to eat him alive, leave nothing but bones when she was done. She envisioned herself lowering her hands to his trousers, releasing the belt from the belt loops and unbuckling it. Then she could see herself kneeling down in front of him and sliding his swollen cock between her lips, sucking that huge, gorgeous cock dry, sucking him with all her hunger and lust, painfully piled up in years of waiting and coveting. She wanted to suck and swallow him, again and again, to devour him whole until nothing was left.

Her mouth watered from that delicious fantasy and when his surprising answer came joined by one of his lethal smiles, she nearly jumped him.

"Don't bother on my account," Edward murmured and glanced down, noticing the clear thrust of her nipples beneath the robe.

With some amount of effort, Tanya veiled her eyes with her lashes, afraid he might notice the savage predatory gleam in them, but he had further reclined on the lounge, indolently crossing his legs, elegant and a little blasé in his fatigue.

Edward could feel Tanya sharply studying him and knew what she would see: a lean, well-dressed man with cool, slightly bored eyes; a picture of insouciance. He deliberately maintained a disarmingly casual pose. Certainly nothing to alarm her, despite this unexpected visit. The acceptance of hospitality and a little polite small talk, Edward had found, often made adversaries relax a little. Tanya must be edgy at his sudden appearance, even if she showed no obvious signs of apprehension, no awareness of danger. Still, it wouldn't hurt to calm her down a little.

Both his answer and his low voice created a deeper level of intimacy between them. She looked expectant; her eyes got large and dark. He saw the involuntary reaction to his response in the way her pupils flared and when she pushed her torso forward to make her taut nipples even more obvious to him, he knew he had not been mistaken in his presumption. He had been her target all along.

"Had a really long day, hadn't you! You were in the meeting for hours with those...what were they again, consultants?"

Her voice was breathy, husky, a wanton rasp.

Edward's head went back, eyes closed. He was indeed tired, having been up early and putting in long hours.

"_And the day isn't over yet..."_ he thought wryly to himself before loudly answering to his host.

"Security consultants, yeah. It was fucking exhausting." He spoke almost absently, his lips barely moving yet added quickly, frowning slightly.

"Pardon my language, please..."

She smiled again a languorous and insouciant little smile and she slid a finger along the polished surface of her glass with a wistful expression, as if touching smooth things pleased her. The victory was so close, it sizzled in her blood, making her dizzy with excitement and she lived that sensation with the intensity of someone aware that a great change that was about to come. Her voice came out again a throaty, triumphant purr.

"No offense taken. Something tells me you'd make even dirty talking sound refined..."

Edward opened his eyes and tilting his head a little to the side, watched her in hidden amazement. He watched her, feeling her intensity, knowing its roots. She was beautiful, he thought as he studied the elegant lines of her neck, but in an oddly repugnant way.

He was disappointed with himself for misjudging her so terribly. Until recently, she had been the person least likely to make him suspicious but they do say that the best femmes fatales are covert; they appear to be cordial, considerate and innocuous but on close observation, one can see the manipulative, deceptive, exploitive, self-absorbed side and their inaptitude for genuine empathy.

Despite her highly polished act, she seemed now so groaningly obvious, an epitome of voracity, the furthest thing from what he would ever trust. She was a perilous, malignant woman, a seductress. He should have known better than to allow his vigilance to be put to sleep by superficial assessments of someone. He should have known, pure and simple; she had always been too keen.

He could be affable, even flirtatious for a little longer but this little charade had lasted enough. She had swallowed the bait. He had let her stew enough. Edward was calm but it was the icy sort, necessary to screen smoldering rage. No smile on his flawless lips, his eyes scorching black.

Abruptly, Tanya had an uneasy feeling that he was looking at her with an especially odd expression and she felt a silly, vagrant urge to break the silence that had suddenly turned suffocating.

"So why the mysterious travel to Sweden?" she asked suavely and her generous lips parted, stretching over her teeth in a false, tense smile. "You don't have any business concerns there. At least, not yet..."

Only silence from Edward and an unblinking stare. He was looking at her so intensely, as if trying to understand something rather in himself than in the woman facing him.

"I feel I must congratulate you, Tanya," he said at last in the manner of one making polite conversation, totally ignoring her apparently innocent question.

"What for?" she asked flirtatiously, white teeth glistening again in the crescent her now hopeful smile made, her full lips more brightly red. The image her mouth wakened in Edward's mind was that of a luscious carnation of a carnivorous flower. Involuntarily, he envisioned her sex even more voracious, a velvety, flesh-eating, deadly Venusian trap. Quite disturbingly, that second image gave him a slight erection.

"_Subduing the shrew with the most primal implement of all..."_ he thought and smiled without separating his lips. His gaze had remained terribly intent.

"You've succeeded in something not many men are able to accomplish..." He spoke almost flippantly and when Tanya caught his eye, she was genuinely surprised to see in there a gleam of mockery. She became suddenly alert.

"And that is?"

He smiled again. It was a derisive grimace.

"Fooling me." His voice was calm and emotionless. Stately. Royal.

Tanya's face drained of blood and the twitching foot froze. Surely, she had misheard him. Her smile became forced, pale; however, her steady, innocent voice could have deceived a lesser careful opponent.

"I'm not sure I understand what you mean."

Edward's mouth curled in another grim smile and he looked at her openly with eyes that studied, weighed, judged her without pretense.

"I didn't see you coming. Didn't see you coming at all..."

The thought stoked his fury anew and a slight frown drew his brows together. But he kept his voice low and let a little of his tiredness slip into it. "And that nearly cost me my marriage..."

She flushed slightly under the frankness of his scrutiny, but she felt surer of herself than a moment before. Even a little defiant.

"Edward, are you alright? You don't make much sense, I don't understand what you're trying to say...," she said with a faint sneer on her face.

A muscle danced in Edward's jaw.

"I noticed you are still to ask me about the reason of my visit."

He stared at her unblinkingly until she started to fidget.

"Well, I've assumed you were lonely and came in search for companionship, for support. It must be hard for you with your wife being away," she said as a bleak smile tried to break through her carefully controlled features. But when instead of smiling back he looked gravely at her, her smile became faint, confused, and quickly vanished. In its place came a wary, bewildered look.

"And just how do you know that Bella is gone, Tanya?" His voice had remained mild. Dangerously so.

Too late she realized her slip and fought hard to keep her hands from clamping over her mouth.

"I'm sure I must have heard it at the office, someone..." she replied hastily, with every appearance of candor.

His lips drew back in a predator's smile.

"No, you haven't. No one mentioned it because no one knew. Except for the family members."

"That must be it! Perhaps I've unintentionally overheard..."

"I doubt that too. Besides, nothing about you is unintentional. Let me explain why I am here then. I came for the letter."

He said that quietly, suppressing his inclination to roar. He did not want to think of Bella now. Nor to speak her name in this room. To do so was tasteless as well as distracting.

She opened her mouth twice before words came out.

"You make it sound as if I ought to know about what letter you're talking about and I really have no clue, Edward..." she replied, still with half-serious petulance.

Edward leaned forward, resting his elbows on his elegant thighs and gave her another searching look. Still smiling with tight lips, he said in a level tone.

"Now, Tanya, surely you know which one..."

In response to Edward's sharp glance, Tanya hesitated again, fidgeted under the hard, cold glare of his eyes, swallowed, and said:

"You're trying to force me to admit my implication in a matter I know nothing about!"

Fury ignited anew, flickering along Edward's already taut nerves but he kept his temper in check.

"Let me explain myself then. You must be aware that my apartment building has video camera surveillance. I watched the recordings of course, after my wife's disappearance, but at first, I only looked for Bella, and unfortunately, I missed seeing Irina."

There was about him now a growing sense of leashed power and implacable determination overlaid by latent menace and Tanya shivered, feeling the frigid touch of fear along her spine.

"Yes, your sister. Does that surprise you? We enhanced the digital capture of some boy carrying a pizza box and there she was! Her features were clearly recognizable, even hidden behind the sunglasses and the baseball cap. Now, I suspect you've made duplicates of my house keys; you had plenty of opportunities to do that. Irina's disguise speaks of careful planning, which also means that you knew that Bella was out, or even gone. Have you had my wife followed? Why did you send Irina to my apartment? To bug the phone? To place a video camera in the vent? To plant another counterfeit evidence of my infidelity for Bella to find by chance?

You made me ask myself so many tiring questions lately, Tanya... And you know what? I don't feel like playing any more guessing games. So tell me..." he continued with the same dead-level calm, "Was Bella's hasty departure an occurrence to your liking? Was her choice predictable to you or it was just an unexpected turn of events that better accommodated your plans? I rather suspect is the latter, since a thorough search of the apartment led to nothing. Your sister's objective had become futile with Bella gone, hadn't it? Instead, you instructed your sister to take the letter my wife had left for me."

Tanya was perplexed but still she managed to inquire ironically:

"Assuming any of what you're saying is true, why on earth would I do that?"

"To delay me. To deepen the erosion between my wife and me."

"This is a wild scenario, Edward, but that's all there is to it. A totally absurd scenario. I've been at your side almost every moment in the past few months; you've seen and sometimes dictated my every move. I have nothing to do with Irina being in your building. Perhaps she has an acquaintance living there."

A trace of spitefulness came into her voice and she seemed to have recovered from her momentary weakness. "I don't know to whom you have been talking, who instigated you against me, but I am not involved in any of it."

"I have confirmation, Tanya."

"There can be no such thing!"

"Why? Because you've been oh-so careful?" Edward ignored her waspish tone and maintained a light conversational manner but his voice was resonant with insinuating threat.

"Let me spare you the effort of further lying, Tanya. I had experts digging up information about you. I do have now solid evidence supporting my accusations, because I've managed to gain access to your computer."

"Why should that be of any significance? You already have access to my computer. It is company's property. You own the company."

Edward's voice sank to a more impressive key and his words came out spaced and distinct, almost pedantically stressed out.

"I am talking about your computer _from home_, Tanya."

He paused to let his words sink in and Tanya was instantly hushed, transfixed.

"Now... I don't think one needs more than average intelligence to understand the implications of such statement," he observed in a tone that made a mockery of the polite words. "Nevertheless, let me spell them out for you. I've hacked your computer and by that, I mean your private email. I've read your email exchanges with Irina, and although you two avoided discussing specifics about the breaking into my apartment, still there were plenty of references to my wife's letter. And of course, there is also your... intensive correspondence with Aro."

Tanya turned ashy.

"So I have irrefutable proof that you are working for the Volturi. You have leaked information about the situation at the rig and kept our main competitor updated on every move, decision and internal operation made within our company. This explains the unusual high number of setbacks we've experienced lately. From what I've seen, the spying has been going on at least since last spring."

"You must agree that from this point, silence or denying are pointless so I'll ask again. Where's my wife's letter, Tanya? Give it to me. Better do it fast, before I start tearing you cozy nest apart. It won't remain your home for long, but still," he gestured vaguely at the space around him, "...you may need some of this stuff."

There was a long, long pause before she uneasily replied.

"I threw it away, okay? I don't have it anymore..."

"I don't think so, Tanya... Now that I've seen you clearly, I know that you are the trophy taker type," his voice dropped, "...among other things. I am sure you have preserved it in order to have a few good laughs over it from time to time. Where is it?" His eyes were colder than winter's heart.

"I'd rather die than submit to you!"

"No, you wouldn't, because you have no moral compass. You're too egotistical, too vain, too narcissistic and shallow to die for pride. And you know what? Those epithets still lay in your future. Nothing will ever be important enough to you to make you change."

Tanya, accustomed to flattery all her life, had never dreamed to hear such things openly said to her and from Edward of all people.

"And how about you, Mister Perfect? Always so damn patronizing and pushing people around..."

"Ah, so we get to have a look-see at what has been a stereotype for centuries - men are basic, brutal and stupid creatures. Sorry, Tanya, but I am not interested in hearing your analysis..."

"You're a pompous arrogant ass," she said, her voice shaking with contempt.

"Now, that really hurts my feelings," he said and his tone went flat.

"Just get out of here! I won't stand your insults! Get out of my house! Get out!" she yelled with her hands knotted in fists.

Though Edward's face remained impassive, the shadow of a smile once more crossed his eyes.

"Don't order me, Tanya. It does not make you look pretty. Au contraire... For the last time, give me back my wife's letter."

When instead of a verbal response Tanya threw him a murderous glare, Edward stood up and looked around, in search of potential hiding places.

"Fine. We'll do this the hard way."

"Where do you think you're going?" she hissed, leaping to her feet.

He opened randomly the first door in his way and stepped inside of an intimate boudoir. More pink. It was like the insides of a fondant box. He stood in the middle of her bedroom with legs apart, one hand in his trousers pocket, the other holding his glass as his determined gaze swept the room.

Tanya followed him inside and twice her eyes slid furtively sidewise towards a chest of drawers by the door; she was quick in jerking them back but not quick enough.

With a dry smile, Edward approached the piece of furniture and placed his glass on top of it, preparing to go through its content. Tanya bustled across the room to grasp his arm in a vain effort to restrain him from opening the drawers. Edward shrugged her aside easily but with enough force to throw her on the bed.

The top two drawers contained flimsy lingerie, nightgowns, silk stockings, a jewelry box and a significant amount of cash. In the bottom drawer, in a pedantic order, he found her checkbook, monthly bills, invoices for different purchases, credit card receipts and other household accounts. Nothing else.

He felt Tanya's blazing eyes boring into his back and he could almost smell her relief.

He pulled out completely the first drawer and Tanya watched him in horrified fascination as he dumped it upside down in the middle of the room. No, it could not be this one, it was too frequently opened. He skipped the second drawer and went directly for the third. He took it out and inverted it. There, on the underside of the bottom, a brown envelope was securely fastened with duct tape.

Tanya's smirk had once more vanished.

Edward neatly ripped the manila envelope from his hiding place and examined it closely. A printed mailing label addressed the envelope to Mrs. Isabella Cullen and had no return address. Edward felt a momentary flicker of resentment towards Bella, who had chosen to believe an anonymous piece of junk worthy of nothing more than the trash can.

He opened the flap. All impatience was gone.

Inside there were one grainy, photostated picture and a few written pages. He recognized Bella's hand and his heart rejoiced. He picked up the reproduced photograph and studied it briefly. It was of very poor quality, probably to mask the shabby fake but indeed, it pictured him and a woman in a passionate embrace. Out of prudence, Tanya had not used her own face. That woman could be anybody.

The photo slipped forgotten from his fingers onto the floor. The hand-written pages went inside his suit jacket.

He took his untouched glass from the cabinet and sniffed it. He could use that drink now that it was over but thought better of it. He suddenly did not trust the content of the glass.

Tanya rose from the bed and slowly, hesitantly moved closer to him. Inches away from Edward, she stopped and looked at him. Her eyes were wet and red-ringed and her lower lip was quivering. He eyed her back in a glare to bore holes into iron.

"It won't do you any good, but I'm going to tell you anyway. You were very close to succeeding in your bold scheme, Tanya. Father and I were considering cutting down our business in Brazil. The severe financial loss; the numerous compensation payments to the injured; the insurance problems... But then, you foolishly decided that it was finally the time for you to further your private agenda. And that was fatal for your plan. Because that triggered my awareness. The rest of it was just a matter of logical deductions."

He started revolving the glass of whiskey in his hand and for a moment watched silently the amber liquid spinning like a vortex.

"Not that I have any stringent need to know, merely a vague curiosity... but tell me, Tanya... why did you do it?" In the easy stillness of his features, there was no indication of either curiosity or impatience.

Tanya retorted with a surprising, explosive viciousness, her tone dangerously defiant.

"Because I love you, you sick bastard! I have always loved you!"

"So it seems that the notion of a woman's ultimate goal has not changed - to get a man, it remains - only the woman's arsenal has expanded..." Edward noted ironically, completely unimpressed. "Why now, Tanya?"

"I couldn't bear to share you with anybody."

"I'm not yours to be shared."

She laughed in response, an abrupt laugh that sounded like a croak.

"You _are_ mine! You were mine long before that sneaking little wife of yours managed to steal you! Before she ever saw you!"

Her lips curved, superior and condescending. She was all but baring her teeth at him like a beast.

"I couldn't wait any longer for you to wake up! We were meant to be together! We are too much alike, both arrogant and proud, both well aware of our own value and strength! You must know that! Can't you see? Are you _that_ blind?"

Edward smiled wolfishly with his lips, but not at all with his eyes.

"If wishes were horses, beggars would ride, Tanya."

He stated that flatly, a sardonic, humorless comment, and his face was frozen calm. But inside he was boiling. Under current circumstances, any mention of Bella from that lewd and overweening woman he considered it rude and offensive in the extreme. She took a shuddery breath and went on, with a dangerous grimace of disgust.

"I thought and thought and just couldn't find any reason why a powerful man like you would want to marry a mousy little nobody like her. What did you see in her, anyway?"

"Hasn't it occurred to you, Tanya, that perhaps it is a matter of personal taste?" he replied with derisive mildness.

"Taste? Taste for what? For a scrawny, tongue-tied, dull peasant girl? How can you stand her? Hasn't she bored you to death by now?"

Edward's anger, insidiously seething in his veins, quickly rolled to a boil. He let it transpire on his face.

"Stop insulting my wife, Tanya..." he warned with a growl, looking at her mordantly.

Contemptuous laughter came from her throat at his words, the veins in her long neck pronounced. Blinded by her self-fuelling, excited delirium, Tanya was scarcely in control of herself anymore.

"I'm sure she bewitched you! With her stupid doe-like eyes, with her perverse shyness and schoolgirl manner, stammering and blushing and all that nauseating crap!"

If she would not restrain her vituperative tongue... Edward did not notice the stinging in his palm - his mind obscured by the compulsive desire to hurt the demonic creature in front of him - until he looked down and realized that he had crushed his glass.

The liquor flowed over the wound mixing with the blood and Edward let the broken pieces of glass fall from his fist. Drops of blood were sliding from his cuts down on the floor, smearing the picture at his feet. He was now aware of the burning pain but ignored it.

The sight of blood apparently shook Tanya from her delusional frenzy.

"Oh, Edward, forgive me! Forgive me!" she cried in a tear-clogged voice and put her arms around him. "I was mad, crazy with jealousy... I won't do anything like that again," she promised feverishly, "Ever."

She pressed her face to his chest and began a dry sobbing, continuing to murmur broken apologies around her rapid breaths.

"I'm sorry, Edward," she whimpered, "I know you will forgive me, you must! I... I'm sorry, sorry, so sorry."

The effect was as much ridiculous as it was phony. He drew his lips back over his teeth in an impatient, annoyed rictus and turned his chin aside to avoid contact with the crown of her head.

Tanya stirred at his chest and raised her face again to look at him. He shook his head, grinning down at her. Her eyes, large and dark with pleading, met his.

"What is it?" she asked chokingly. Her mouth was moist.

"Nothing except that I know you aren't."

"He threatened to hurt you, he forced me to do it, to betray you! You have no idea how brutal he can be. I tried to keep him away from you, I tried to protect you!"

"Thoughtful of you..." Edward said, biting off the words.

"I couldn't tell you all that, you know he's dangerous, you know that! He is pure evil!" she tried again, all in one breath.

"Oh, yeah?"

"Please, Edward, you've got to believe me!"

He looked at her sharply and in his eyes, she read an icy disdain.

"Actually, it makes more sense if I don't believe you."

She caught the lapels of his jacket and clung to them, uttering obsequious phrases of apology and assurance, continuously babbling.

"I wanted out, but he said it was too late for me to pull out and that if I didn't do as he told, he'd harm you. He was going to give me a demonstration... I was terribly afraid for you. He's a nutcase!"

"I can take care of myself, Tanya; I don't need your protection. In fact, I don't think I'll be needing anything from you in the future."

"Don't say that, please don't... You can't chase me away! Not after what we've been to each other. You can't!"

"Like hell I can't."

"But...," she wailed, "you need me. You need me to take care of you, to help you with the business. You need a strong, sophisticated woman by your side. Please, Edward, I love you so much..."

"This is not a good love, Tanya. It is the obsessive, loveless kind of love, the kind that devastates everything it touches. I don't want any of it. And darling," he said as he stepped back out of her arms, "...you should stop acting like a madonna. You're quite good at it but honestly, it doesn't become you at all."

His grin was quick and unexpected. Feral.

"This is what happens next, sweetie." There was a sardonic glint in his eyes. "You move out of Seattle. You disappear from my life."

Out of nowhere, the ice-queen perfection of her features twisted in an indescribably vicious, malevolent expression, making her face a contorted, almost inhuman mask. He did not think she even acknowledged it.

"To hell with you!" Her breath came ragged, heavy, poisonous.

"Are you under the impression that you have a choice here?" His voice was laced with cool menace but behind it, he was furious. "I can hurt you in ways you've never imagined. I can interfere with your carrier, with your finances, with your each and every pursuit. I can hurt your reputation. I can hurt your friends."

"I don't give a shit about anybody! Go ahead! Do your worst!"

She was shouting now, livid and straining, the pulse throbbing at her throat and her eyes were filled with a mortal hatred.

"Oh, but there is someone you do care about… I've put myself through the trouble of assembling some of the evidence against you in a very pretty display. It is saved in my draft emails, and the recipient is your father. How will your father feel knowing that his precious daughters have broken the strong, long-lasting alliance between our families? Tell me, Tanya, wouldn't that sting like salt on wound inside the old man's chest?"

"You son of a bitch," she whispered. "Tell him and be damned! But I'll hurt myself if you do that!" she cried. "I will hurt myself and go to the police. I'll say you barged in here, started a tantrum and tried to rape me. They will find your prints, your blood on the glass, on the carpet! Then I'll go to each and every tabloid and drag you and your precious family into the worst nightmare of your pathetic perfect lives! The sleazier the scandal, the better!"

He made a sound that might have been a laugh.

"You would not dare! Because then I will make available both to the press and the authorities the considerable amount of evidence I gathered against you. Whom do you think they would rather believe?"

"Yeah, like you obtained that in an honest, lawful way!"

Edward continued as though she hadn't spoken.

"And somewhere during this unpleasant course of action perhaps I'll accidentally slip to your dear friend Aro a little piece of information. Let him know in detail just how close he was to succeed in his plans and how you managed to screw it up for him by following your own sordid purpose. What is more, I don't think for a second that he's going to be thrilled about becoming the object of media scrutiny. How about that?"  
A white look smeared the woman's face and her eyes became mirrors of stark terror. She was indeed afraid of Aro. He was cruel and vindictive. Edward would not physically harm her. Aro would. He could disfigure her in revenge. Torture her. Or even worse.

"Do you see now? You will do as I desire. You must." Edward threatened her again in an excruciatingly quiet voice, almost a whisper.

"Because I can demolish you."

The perfectly ordinary conversational tone made the warning worse than any shouts could ever have. Edward saw the defeat in her eyes even before she realized it herself. The brusque comprehension of her futile struggle, of her unsuccessful efforts. The realization that not only was she exposed but also trapped.

She sat still for a while, hardly breathing, all light extinguished in her eyes. But soon, blind, choking wrath, driving out of fear and desire to revenge, arose in her heart. Wounded vanity and unrequited love can quickly turn to hate for a woman of her kind.

She attacked him ferociously. She made a claw of her right hand and struck at his face, her lacquered nails the color of the blood.

Her wrists were seized in midair, the catch clean, swift, confident. Tanya, now immobilized, was getting purple. Her eyes protruded, glassy, senseless, enormous, black with malice. Saliva foamed at the corner of her lips and she hissed between clenched teeth, like a venomous asp viper. Her neck, her whole body was a squirming mass of swollen veins and muscles about to burst. Her wrists were hot in his hands and sweat made them slippery.

A firm grip on her shoulders didn't stop her from thrashing like a rabid woman. A stinging slap across the face did.

"I hate you," she whispered fiercely after a few seconds.

"A minute ago you loved me. Your inconsistency is disturbing... Let's see... you have attempted denials, threats and pleas for mercy. Oh, and also we should count your vitriolic attacks. Is there anything left up your sleeve, Tanya? No? Well, this means that it's over as far as you're concerned," he said tersely. "Leave. Now. Tonight. I don't give a damn what you do with your life or where you end up. I suspect you have a great ability to land on your feet, anyway.

I'm letting you go as it is as a favor to your father, Tanya. Don't mistake it for weakness. By all means, feel free to inform your friend about his stratagem being exposed. Have him contact me; he and I should have a nice, quiet chat. The wise thing to do after that is to lose your track. Keep out of my sight for the rest of your life because, if we meet again, I doubt that my conduct will be as polite."

Her slapped cheek, now mottled with yet another shade of pink, clashed unpleasantly with the improbable strawberry-blonde of her coiffure.

Edward checked his wristwatch. He felt suddenly out of place in that apartment, in the presence of that emotionally disturbed woman. He could barely stand to spend another minute in there, as if the air had turned heavy, putrid and poisonous. Without another word or any farewell greeting, he turned and left her bedroom, feeling a vague sensation of queasiness.

He stopped in the hallway to find his overcoat, long enough to hear her shouting after him all the usual obscene and insulting names, her voice gradually rising until the string of maledictions culminated with the sound of another glass breaking.

She was raving like a lunatic, a poor creature of hysteria and madness. In Edward's view, going a bit crazy after someone slapped you was healthier and saner than being polite, demure, and rational. But that woman was raging mad.

He had expected to be harder to break her.

He felt a bit smug about his accomplished performance and he would have smiled, except that a filament of worry remained. She was more deranged than he had anticipated; therefore more unpredictable and dangerous. He needed to make sure that she would really be gone. And even after that she would have to be kept under discreet surveillance. His men would see to it.

He wrapped his handkerchief around his wounded hand and walked away. It was for the first time in many weeks when he was eager to return home. His steps were brisk but his shoulders were relaxed. Bella's letter, secured in his chest pocket, warmed his heart.

**Thank you for reading.**


	14. Chapter 14

**I own nothing.**

I woke up very early that morning, after a restless, tormenting night. The text Edward had sent me the day before was annoyingly cryptic: "I'm coming for you. Be ready." Nothing else, no further details.

Growing antsy and impatient, torn between violent pangs of homesickness and utter excitement about seeing him, I had nothing much to do to relieve the agony of waiting. My luggage already waited in a neat little pile on the plush carpeting. _"Be ready."_ Oh, I was ready... I had been ready for quite a while now in my comfy, open prison. Unable to relax after too much coffee, I was fussing about the room, without any particular will or purpose, tidying things, filling my time when he suddenly appeared in the doorway, his footsteps barely making a sound.

I came to a slow, hesitant stop as I saw him and I whispered his name in a dazed voice. His head lifted and he stopped on the threshold to lock gazes with me. Our eyes met and time halted. The intensity of his stare almost took my breath away, making me cautious to advance towards him. I was unsure where that hesitation might have come from. I felt overwhelmed, fragile, anxious, my mouth bone dry, my heart all over the place.

"_Oh, God, let him be gentle."_

He was wearing a sports jacket over a black T-shirt and well-worn jeans, casual yet elegant. My skittish heart tipped over a precipice. His relaxed attire was a political statement; it was a white flag.

There was no difference in his carriage, however. It was as controlled and vital as ever. He had just entered and already the space was filled with his presence, radiating a sense of entitlement and power, which I felt with every fiber of my being.

There were times when I truly wished he weren't so handsome.

"_Here is your crown, and your seal and rings_... _for you are my sovereign, King Harold..._"

Suddenly, he smiled. It was a slow developing smile, which started in his eyes and traveled by noticeable degrees to his shapely mouth; a lovely, daunting, intoxicating thing that made me catch my breath.

Just like that, I wanted to run to him.

He put down his overcoat and shoulder bag and, with a swift and eerie grace, came towards me. I let out a tiny gasp and my stomach fluttered with each of his steps. He reached for my hand and lacing his fingers through mine, pulled me closer until the beautiful scent of his cologne made me weak at the knees.

"Hi..."

I was raw in emotion. I felt little and tender. I forgot how to do anything except to say 'hello' and my voice was hoarse when I spoke. I could think of nothing articulate, nothing bold, nothing even remotely clever to add, other than a timorous admission:

"I can't believe you're here..."

He embraced me and his shoulder was firm beneath the fabric of his jacket, I noticed absently. I snuggled my face into his chest and hugged him back, squeezing hard. He hummed my name, a simple, torturous caress flying by my ear, warm, lingering lips at my temple.

"So good to see you...to hold you..."

Closing his eyes briefly, he rested his forehead on mine, his nose playfully, tenderly brushing mine. An Eskimo kiss, light as the fluttering wings of a butterfly.

"I missed you so much..." I confessed meekly, noticing that it had become a bit difficult to breathe evenly. He smiled down at me.

"I was counting on that."

"Are you still upset with me?" I asked, tentatively.

He licked his lips, and suddenly I detected a faint hint of a smirk, maybe even a dare.

"Insanely," he answered quietly, cradling my cheek in his palm.

He pressed my mouth open with his thumb, readying me for a kiss, then he leaned into me so agonizingly slowly that I whined. Soon, his lips were smooth against mine and he swallowed my whimper with the silkiest kiss imaginable. Soft, tender, inquisitive. The exploration of my mouth was delicate, as if he were discovering me for the first time, as if it were our first kiss. A kiss that turned into another, deeper than the one before.

His slow, hot mouth grew demanding, making me deliciously lost. Caught in the moment, at first I grasped his wrist, keeping his hand at my face, before greedily encircling his neck.

It seemed like almost as soon as it began, it was done; he pulled back and let his lips gently graze mine. I couldn't but give a sigh of disappointment. A couple of steps and there was the bed: large, comfortable, inviting... Crisp white cotton sheets, soft goose feather and down pillows.

He followed the direction of my gaze and his mouth twitched towards an amused smile; nothing ever escaped his notice. He knew precisely what was going through my head.

"Oh, I see..." he whispered. "That bad, huh?"

He laughed at me and tilting my chin up to look into my eyes, said softly:

"Regrettably, there's not enough time for that. I've made arrangements for us to leave at noon and I think we really need more time than the remaining…" he glanced at his watch, "four hours to satisfy these last weeks of frustration. Plus, there is something we need to do before we leave."

It was an assertive reassurance in his words but still I could feel nothing but rejection, despondency and disappointment. He placed his forefinger beneath my chin again and forced it up to establish eye contact, regarding me with tolerant amusement. He slowly grazed the pad of his thumb across my lower lip, his eyes sharpening as he immediately read my distress.

"I _would_ take you now," he murmured in soothing tones, "but I don't want to rush it."

He slowly lowered his head so he could kiss me again. It was a mild, comforting kiss, which he briefly broke to whisper:

"I intend to take my time... I want to breathe as I play you, not to gulp you down like you were a cheap wine."

If those words were meant to temperate my fervor, they quite successfully produced the opposite effect. Pleasure rippled down my spine, desire surged and I responded ardently. The cool, silken brush of his lips turned hot, then hotter still; the kiss deepened and soon, despite ourselves, it became something else.

We were kissing intensely, starved for each other's breath and taste. It was abandonment to that mysterious, strangely sophisticated craving for one's unique partner. It was instantaneous recognition of one's soul mate. It was a renewed declaration of mutual hunger.

My omnipresent doubts were quickly pushed to the back of my mind. I wasn't thinking at all beyond the basic thought of wanting him. I felt him pause, trying to pull away so I retained him.

"Sweet hell, woman! Don't push it..." he said thickly, sternness not quite hiding his change of state. It gratified me to notice that his breath, too, was a little rough.

"Sorry... I got carried away."

"You knew perfectly well what you were doing but I'll discount it for now. Grab your jacket. We need to be somewhere."

"Where are we going?"

"To buy Ms. Weber a farewell gift."

I gave a sigh of relief and followed him eagerly.

In front of the hotel, a taxi was already waiting for us. "However do you manage it, Edward?" I asked him more in wonder than in curiosity.

"What, Bella?"

"Joggling with so many balls at the same time."

He did not answer, just gathered me close and kissed my temple.

"Come. The time is short."

We shared the backseat and the hard proximity of his presence distracted me from anything else. I did not particularly care where we were going but when the taxi pulled up in front of a Japanese car dealership I looked at Edward in awe. I expected a perfumery, even a jewelry shop would not have surprised me much but this was way beyond my estimation. He sensed my dumbfounded stare and the unspoken question within.

"I owe Ms. Weber a debt of gratitude for taking care of you, and I would really like to do something for her in return."

"So you're buying her a car."

"Exactly."

"You are being very generous but isn't that a bit much?"

"She kept you safe, Bella..."

"I understand that but still, a car?! I mean, she may refuse it. I _would_."

"Isabella, Ms. Weber drives a decrepit vehicle which is in a hazardous condition. I'm amazed that the damn thing hasn't collapsed by now. A new car seems like a suitable gift and I'll make it impossible for her to refuse it; the car, already put in her name, fully paid and insured, won't be delivered until after we will be gone."

Naturally, he was expected by the auto dealer, all the details having been discussed over the phone. Edward had to sign again and again heaps of papers but still, we were able to be in and out of there within an hour, without the usual hassles and games. I didn't dare to think of the difficulties implied by the purchase of a car in a different country, as a donation for a different person but it was done and Angela would receive her new urban SUV in the next couple of days.

Around 11:00, we were back at the hotel to collect my luggage. While Edward paid the bill, I called Angela to say good-bye. We didn't see each other since that rainy night of my visit. She was at work so I kept the conversation brief. Then I turned the phone off.

* * *

We were on the second plane, freshly embarked after the hour-long layover in London. During that time, over a cup of coffee and a sweet pastry, he told me about his discoveries back home. He related the facts in as few words as possible and I didn't push for details. He would not have liked it and I was too tender and overwhelmed by his news.

I remembered Tanya now; I'd seen her on several occasions. Many would have accounted her beautiful at first glance, but a second, more careful look, made it clear that vanity of her face was not a momentary matter. But most acutely, I remembered her supercilious voice on the phone, sugarcoated in a thin layer of professionalism, scraping her refusals over my eardrum and my heart.

I had no desire to dwell upon those difficult memories. Soon, Europe would be behind us. Hopefully, the entire unpleasant episode that had brought me here, too.

"How are you feeling, Bella?"

Since leaving the hotel together early that afternoon, he had been refraining from touching me in any meaningful way other than holding hands as we forged our path through the dense airport crowds. No other kiss, no tender embrace. Perhaps he was preoccupied with the million different facts of our travel but still, it was a little disconcerting. So his sudden question took me by surprise.

"Glad to be on our way home. Relieved. Grateful that I'm at least in part forgiven..."

Of course, I did not know that, but what could it hurt to test the waters a bit? His constant vacillation between _'Bella'_ and _'Isabella'_ was a strong indication that I wasn't quite out of the woods yet. I watched his face, trying to weigh the impact of my little remark, but it was like attempting to read a blank wall. He did not look inclined to comment on that. Instead, he observed tonelessly.

"I can't help but notice something else, too. You're not telling me all that there is..."

I looked at him curiously. His face did not change expression, but his nostrils flared with a deep intake of breath.

"Oh..."

He lifted an eyebrow inviting me again to answer.

"And?" he insisted.

"And aroused," I admitted faintly.

He chuckled and half-smiled, still very much interested in his newspaper.

"Any hot teenagers on the board of this plane?"

I blushed, annoyed and ashamed.

"That remark was totally uncalled for."

"It is said that teasing is done to bring out the spirit."

I pursed my lips, dissatisfied with his answer.

"There is also a tincture of gratuitous meanness in teasing."

"But the intention is not cruelty. It is rather the intention of playing on the edges of vulnerability in fractional, momentary denial of, let's say, consideration of the other with the aim of obtaining a sparkling and witty response."

He went on before I could respond.

"For the strong, it can be a way to renew the crystallization of falling in love: challenge, danger, resistance, struggle, surrender. Teasing is a lure, is making the other reach, stretch to the desired."

Whether this was an affirmation for his motives, or a hidden apology, I was unsure.

"It hurts, nevertheless."

"It was such an obvious joke and I couldn't resist the temptation. Sorry... Now tell me, what set you off?"

I remained silent, unconvinced by his excuse.

"Isabella, there are mock-fighting aspects about teasing that are heavenly. For instance, I like it when you pout," he warned. "Because then I can afford myself the sweet pleasure of putting things right. Now it is not a proper moment, though. I said I was sorry. Now, talk to me!"

A sudden thought induced a surreptitious smile, which I managed to suppress. I faked hesitation. I knew what he was doing with his teasing - operating on the edge, where it was trickier, where he had to be aware of his balance; where our differences were in sharper relief and could be renewed and celebrated. He challenged himself and me at the same time.

But I could do that, too. And so, with small steps, I began to pursue my husband down the tricky corridors of his own game, with more confidence in my footing than it was otherwise justified and yet fully cognizant of the pending developing disaster.

"You mean, beside your presence?" I inquired softly, candidly, in an intimately flirtatious manner. "Don't you know what they say?! A man at twenty five is sexy; a man at thirty five is sexier."

"Stop biting around the bush."

I made him wait a little longer this time, enough for him to get impatient.

"Well?"

"Your jeans." I finally replied with a sigh and placed my palm casually on his knee. "Have you ever heard of the Sartorius muscle?" I neutrally asked him as I began to move my hand upward along the faded denim; the fabric was soft and hugged him snugly, like a second skin.

He looked at me questioningly.

"Can't say that I have, no..."

"Well, it's a thin, long muscle, the longest in the human body actually," I didactically explained, making my tone a little pompous. "It's this hard line inside your thigh that runs down from here...to here," I drawled wickedly, sliding my hand in a lazy motion over the length of his thigh, indicating the position of the said muscle. I felt his leg tightening under my touch, which I took it as a sign that he was not immune to my admiring attentions.

"I have this highly cathartic erotic imagining, you after shower, dripping wet in a bathrobe, naked underneath. As I would come towards you, you would disrobe and let it fall to the floor. My reaction would be to drop to my knees at your feet and to move my hands all over your thighs, fingers tracing the Sartorius, my mouth following my touch, my tongue exploring, tasting the skin."

I paused a little to let my words do their job then concluded with clear disinterest: "You know...muscle worship."

My hand was still stroking his thigh over the jeans, jeans that were now filled out exceptionally well by the heavy erection beneath them.

"That sounds…interesting," Edward admitted reluctantly as he rearranged the newspaper in front of him to mask my maneuvers and his condition from prying eyes. I smiled boldly at him, unashamed and satisfied with myself for having been able to affect him, so...palpably.

"Don't get used to winning that easily, my love," he muttered under his breath.

"Why? Does losing scare you that much?"

He just smiled.

"It's not that. Your little devious game is going to get you in trouble again," he stated calmly, accompanying his words with a hissing heat of a warning. "You will pay dearly for this, Isabella."

"Do I need to remind you who, so insistently, I may add, got me started?" I argued ingenuously, stilling the movement of my hand.

"I may have put the question, but did not ask for an open demonstration."

My hand slid a bit higher on his stiff thigh.

"My debts are piling, aren't they?" I retorted in a mock of innocence.

"Oh, but they are...and the time for retribution is near."

"Yes, of course, the aforementioned and much dreaded retaliation I fear and so righteously deserve..." I emphasized in nonchalant but calculated impertinence. "I find I am increasingly prepared for that judgment. I'm ready to receive whenever and whatever you wish to unleash upon me; I'm not scared of repercussions. I'm not afraid of you."

Edward smiled in spite of himself.

"Perhaps you should...because it will sure as hell be a good, satisfying revenge."

I feigned unconcern.

"Really?"

He flipped another page of the newspaper and continued to scan the titles with keen interest. At the same time responded off-handed, dispassionate, decided.

"Yeah, really." His reply was short, stifled, but I knew he was grinning inside.

"Revenge is for the weak."

"But so satisfactory."

"How do you intend to accomplish that?" I asked with an affected lack of interest.

He turned his head brusquely and looked at me in such a way that I could not mistake his meaning. A mischievous smile crossed his lips, his eyes turning greener as desire intensified the color.

"I have several means in view."

"Name one!"

"Come closer so I can whisper it to you," he gritted out quietly, bending his head down so close to mine that his breath was warm on my face. I complied, hiding my eagerness.

"Let's just say…by conquering and subduing you, by claiming you and making you my possession," he started to murmur in my ear, making my heart flutter with excitement. I tried not to squirm in my chair.

"I _will_ make you ache and burn and moisten... I _will_ sate myself with you... I _will_ have your scent beneath my fingernails for ever," he breathed into my ear, his voice thick with lust, "…and I _will_ burn you so deeply with my touch that you will never again be free to roam around the world away from me," he continued, in the same slow, deliberate tone.

New color flushed my cheeks. The subtle male scent of him wrapped around me like a mist, his voice, his wicked words made me oblivious to everything but him and suddenly, the prospect of his revenge turned utterly delicious. All I could do in response was to make a little keening sound of both pleasure and want.

"Breathe, love," he whispered teasingly, returning to his newspaper. His prop. There was smug amusement in his eyes but also, there was the strong glint of a promise.

He was not a man to accept my grave breach of etiquette from before without retaliating in kind. He'd always be better than I would at this game. I inhaled deeply, to draw in enough oxygen to clear my mind and cleared my voice.

"When?"

"I see that your patience doesn't show signs of improving in your fourth decade," Edward replied casually, hardly keeping himself from smiling. "Out of self-discipline and consideration for propriety, not right now. We're on a plane, surrounded by people, Isabella..."

"Oh, yes, how silly of me to forget! Luckily, you possess wisdom and discretion enough for both of us."

"You like to think of me as irreproachable? I have my flaws, you know?"

"I was being sarcastic."

"Oh, were you?"

Evidently, he was pulling my leg. I bit my lip to hide a smile. That was how things had always been between us: sassy put-downs, cute little deceiving traps and subtle mannerisms.

"Don't get too wound up. That was a mere example. I do have other, more severe options."

"I would expect no less of you."

"And I would hate to disappoint," he quickly backhanded. "Anyway, there should be ample opportunity in the future for the...anatomy studies you have in mind."

"What do you mean?"

"I'll be around more."

My heart leaped in my chest and I almost cried out with joy.

"Really, Edward? You're not kidding? Please don't be kidding..."

He grinned, sharing my joy, but the smile put no warmth into his eyes. He seemed worried, somehow.

"Is there a reason behind this unexpected change in your... agenda?"

To this, he replied harsher than necessary: "I don't need a reason to spend more time with my wife."

The deliberate opacity he kept in our conversation was beginning to get on my nerves.

"I thought you were this busy, busy businessman..."

"In the light of the latest events, anything less, anything else, pales."

"Anything but?!" I asked oh-so-innocently.

"You."

He said the single word a bit too heavily, making me wary.

"Don't you trust me as much as before?" I asked, suddenly guarded.

"No, I trust you, but you've shown me that I need to be stricter. You need a lot of attention, and I want to give you plenty."

Oh, I so feared and hated those adjectives, 'needy', 'clingy', 'suffocating', 'obsessive' and I had always been careful not to leave him that impression. I swallowed the fresh lump in my throat.

"Which means that…?"

He let the question hang in the air between us for a few heartbeats.

"You'll have to wait and see."

Still annoyingly subtle, never inclined to explain things.

"You know, Edward, when has to interpret vague messages, one can never really know what it was meant and being forced to guess creates insecurity. It's that what you want me to feel relating to you?"

He flashed a broad, unexpected smile.

"Oh, Isabella, I'm not so naive as to think you naive. Besides, you should not ask, it spoils the surprise."

"Should I regard that as an innuendo for something more... pleasant?" I asked coyly, feigning coquetry.

The daring note that crept into my voice did not go unnoticed. He looked at me briefly, quizzically.

"It is said that the female brat is an expert at enticing her man from his worries by engaging him in play. Is this what you're doing, Isabella?"

From time to time, I indulged in a little harmless naughtiness, just enough to make sure I had not been forgotten but that didn't usually cause him serious anger; it was just what it took to get his attention. Having decided to raise the stakes a bit, I tried now to find a half-mocking drawl in return:

"I bet you know a lot about womanly nature, Mr. Cullen, now don't you?"

"Answer me, love, are you deliberately trying to... charm me?" he asked again in a calm and slightly amused way. I knew that tone well.

Damn! But then again, I had never been very good at pretense.

"Well, you're open and calm and easy now...not gloomy and ominous anymore. I don't think is any of my doing but I love that." I said seriously.

"Don't underestimate yourself." He shifted his gaze from the newspaper and threw me a very sharp, piercing look. "Never again," he added ponderously, his voice lacking any mocking undertone.

The feeling that someone was looking out for my best interest, even when I wasn't able to do so myself, was thrilling. He did that. Sometimes it might amount to no more than holding and listening to me or helping me unload a ton of emotional baggage. Still, at other times, it might involve keeping me from becoming my own worst enemy.

It was powerful and dizzyingly to be cared for in that way but still, I didn't like to be constantly reminded of his disapproval regarding my refuge in Sweden. It seemed he still intransigently refused to consider things from my standpoint and that was somewhat irritating. Usually, that caused transgressions in my behavior.

"I must be unaware of my own…abilities."

I had sounded more abrupt and self-sarcastic than I had intended and Edward gazed back at me, a look of unshakable calm on his face.

"Precisely."

"Perhaps there is a man out there somewhere, who could cherish me with all my insecurities and fears, and consider me lovable rather than weak, boring, or not enough of a challenge."

His face held a perplexed look for a fleeting moment. He stopped short of perusing the paper, tried to hide a smile as he folded it and then looked straight at me. I didn't need to look into his eyes to see the blazing fire of male erotic dominance there; it exuded from his every pore. I had dared him and he had just taken the dare.

"There is definitely a man right here who is tempted to remind you of your place regardless of the surroundings if you don't curb your mouth... Do you have a subconscious desire to be disciplined, Bella? Are you deliberately trying to anger me?"

The fact that he was whispering rather than speaking more loudly was almost more chastising. The combination of the sexy whisper and the scolding usually did wonders for me in the respect department.

"I didn't say that on purpose."

"Oh, I think that you did," was his sure reply. "You did it to put an accent on your reasons and mindset behind your leaving, which leaving brought my discontentment and therefore, your fast-approaching punishment. Am I mistaken in this?"

Well, it was no surprise that he could call my bluff, take the shield from me.

"I absolutely understand that I may deserve a stern rebuke at times, but I didn't believe you have a taste for delivering unjustified punishments. This is an unfair and audacious decision," I protested.

"It's I who have the right to judge what deserves punishment and what not; you may not expect it nor think it's fair, or you may feel you have a perfectly good excuse. I set the standards and decide what I consider to be a breach of the spirit of the law, not only the letter of it and quite frankly, I'm enjoying the role immensely. I get to act as judge and disciplinarian altogether. I'll entertain argument, make my decision, explain my reasoning, and then, baby, that's it. No pouting, no passive-aggression, just making do the best we can."

"I'm anxiously waiting to hear my fate, then."

It took emotional strength to accept his decisions with humility and grace even when I didn't agree. I wasn't in a particularly 'graceful' state now though, but maybe this nonsense punishment would bring an 'absolution', something that I needed in order to know that it was over, that it was forgotten and also that my husband was not holding any grudge against me anymore.

On top of this, I felt very much cared for by the fact that he was willing to take the time to correct me, rather than simply choosing not to acknowledge what had been going wrong.

"We'll cross that bridge when we get to it. Anyway, you ought to know by now that a man tries very hard never to give in to a woman's enticements and machinations."

"You can't blame a girl for trying... But no matter how capricious my behavior, I expect you have the brains, the nerve, the true virility, the maturity, common sense and love for me to deal with it immediately, decisively, effectively, and with care."

Edward watched me as I emphatically counted his attributes on my fingers. My answer must have pleased him, because his grin returned, marked with lazy intend.

"You keep verbally batting your eyelashes at me. You enjoy playing the vixen, don't you?"

"About just as much as you enjoy playing along with me."

"Flattery and flirting, Isabella, will get you everywhere but they won't absolve you of your punishment."

"Oh, we're back to that."

"You spend your time about equally divided in the brat and angel camps; occasionally, you can use a little help finding your way back to the correct camp."

"You mean, the camp where I would just stay put and let you order me around, don't you?"

"That is hardly my objective; although, contrary to what many believe, that kind of management in a relationship can sometimes be genuinely useful and good."

"You say that like you believe it."

"That was not meant as a derogatory statement. Leading and protecting are entirely different from controlling and imposing and it can be hard to remain strong enough to take control without taking over."

He delivered the explanation quietly, in a steady voice, just a little reminder of our dynamics. I found on a sudden that I was unwilling to engage in the useless rhetoric of formal argument. I was not in the mood for labels or definitions. I wanted to play. I wanted things light and good-humored.

"I wouldn't know about that. Your knowledge about such sensible matters far exceeds mine. What I do know is that at the moment I'm not interested in patronizing generalities," I said, indisposed.

"It's a lot of mixed signals you're sending, Isabella and right now, it seems to me like no matter what I do, I'm going to be wrong. Even a confident man would like to know his efforts are appreciated once in a while."

"When a great deal of intelligence and arrogance mix in one person, Edward, and that person is wrong, then it can be spectacularly wrong."

"That's why I require you; somebody smart enough to know when I am mistaken, strong enough to tell me and sweet enough to make me like it."

"And maybe that other man will not assume that he knows all there is to know about me since I'm learning new things about myself everyday." I snapped, with a new hint of challenge.

Edward's eyes crinkled and his lips moved in a little half grin.

"You think I'm bragging?! The supposed feminine mystique is not that difficult to fathom. Women tend to be more alike than they will ever admit."

I prickled and chafed at his arrogance; if there was any limit to it, I hadn't seen it yet. I didn't have time to retort, he quickly went on.

"Nevertheless, it takes patience and attention to understand a woman and that combination it is typically found in men who have done some living and who have an honest understanding of themselves - both their strengths and weaknesses. This is not exactly the province of impatient novices. Don't you agree, Isabella?"

He kept taunting me with references to Jake so I played my little annoying tune again in response.

"And that person will not be one who has to resort to subtle psychological manipulation to trigger various reactions and feelings in me, but one who resonates with all that is woman in me."

He glanced at me with a stern but slightly amused expression.

"Isabella, you're venturing on a very dangerous path. I strongly suggest you stop."

He cautioned me calmly, yet he seemed to be restraining himself from getting truly mad at me; perhaps he preferred to treat my impertinence gently. I lifted my chin to emphasize my lack of interest in his threat.

"It's my own way of separating the men from the boys, so to speak. And since I am to be given a punishment, I might as well deserve it!"

"Hear, hear! A woman who knows she's strong enough to face whatever she has coming her way, without having to be nagging or obstinate to prove it! That's a rare find indeed!"

"Hmm... I thought you wanted a blindly obsequious simpering ninny?!" The words came out more of a flirtatious invite than the mockery I'd intended.

Edward smiled at me with wickedly amused eyes and answered in the same key: "I'm a man of many tastes." He paused as if he were gauging my reaction to his riposte then added with mellifluous inflections. "But I much prefer you though... a woman of passion and fire, loyalty and spirit. Your personality and other, more _ineffable_ qualities make you a very enriching challenge, on any given day. All the more reason for which you need a man who leads in all things. I mean a seasoned man who is getting good at his art."

"I have no idea where I stand on the maturity scale, but you're too young to be calling yourself 'seasoned'."

The honeyed voice turned to steel.

"Well, one thing is for sure, Isabella. I'm no college boy."

That quite predictably drove me into a state of sullen silence.

"Apparently, I'm not thrilling you with my acumen," he observed with benevolent sneakiness. "Come on, Isabella, we are discussing matters of mutual interest."

I pursed my lips stubbornly.

"Careful, you're fairly close to losing by abandonment. Is that your wish? If so, I think that would be most inadvisable." He quickly added with a devilish grin as a flight attendant began to recite the safety instructions before the takeoff. "You know how I like gloating when I win!"

I feigned a smile, defeated.

"I don't want to lose."

"Of course you don't."

I modulated my voice in a suave, propitiating purr.

"I just want you to win..."

He chuckled and leaned into me so that his next words fell into the shell of my ear.

"Either way, I'll be at your disposal."

* * *

It was a little after four in the afternoon when we landed. After we collected the suitcases from the baggage carousel, we headed outside, where a heavy blanket of clouds threatened to smother the city. Yellow and red leaves were dilatorily falling, bringing dulcet tones to the grey of the asphalt. The daylight was weakening slowly and the air, clear and cool, carried the taste of snow on it.

I was drained and oddly, a bit touchy; I couldn't wait to get home, to be in the privacy of our own little world at last. A fourteen-hour plane ride, no matter how comfortable the conditions, can be grueling on the body. I could only imagine how exhausting that must have been for Edward; after all, it was his second flight in the last thirty-six hours. But he didn't once complain.

"Is there someone waiting for us?"

"No, but we don't need a ride. I left the car in long parking."

To my absolute puzzlement, he had dropped the pleasant tone. He seemed stiff and cold again and I was just about to find out why.

"Prepare yourself for entertaining guests, Bella. The welcome committee is waiting for us in our apartment to have an early dinner. A formal one."

I froze on the spot.

"What? Why?"

I was mortified by the idea of seeing all the members of his family so soon, so unexpectedly and in a formal context of all. I was completely unprepared and still somewhat ashamed of myself; I'd secretly hoped for a day or two of mental preparation.

"They love you and they were extremely worried. Is it unreasonable to believe they're anxious to see you, love?" he asked in return, a bit rhetorically, a bit sarcastically.

"No. No, it isn't. But I am not ready to face them just yet. Whose idea was it?"

"Mine." Then a heartbeat later: "And Alice's."

"But there are arrangements to be made!"

"Alice has hired a professional dinner-party cook and a butler for the evening. She knows her way around our home and has everything covered."

"How formal? Are we talking black tie?"

"I expect so."

"Obviously, I can't ready evening clothes for both of us on such short notice!"

"I'm sure Alice thought of that, too."

"But we are after a long journey, we're tired, weary from the jet lag, you haven't slept in God knows how many hours!"

"This is not the hardest thing I had to do recently, Bella," he pointed out with abrupt asperity, fixing me with a level stare. The coldness in his gaze immediately set my heart to racing; I lowered my eyes.

"Stay here. I go get the car," he ordered tersely, temporarily cutting off my protests.

While I waited, I realized that the sudden change in his disposition originated in his expectation of my resistance and with good reason too, since I did find this unexpected arrangement terribly off-putting. I knew his temper had been rising with every of my objections and by his expression when he got out of the car, he was plenty annoyed already.

"Get in."

He loaded the suitcases in the trunk then took off his overcoat and threw it irritated on the back seat; in next to no time we drove off with my bubble of anticipation and excitement about being finally home punctured and slowly deflating.

I leaned my head back against the headrest and closed my eyes. I was dead tired, my back was sore, it had been a long day, a long flight, a long everything and the hardest part was still to come.

Edward tended to be supremely private especially in delicate matters but still I wondered what he had told them, what his explanation or excuse for my cowardly act of desertion had been. Had it been embarrassing for him? Was he ashamed with me? Had he lost his respect for me permanently? Was contempt lingering in his heart?

"The things they must think of me..." I murmured absently.

Edward shrugged, gave a tight smile and answered softly:

"No matter what, you'll be forgiven. But I don't believe they feel the need to make it their business in the first place."

I truly hoped he was willing to protect me from any potential rude comments or guilt trips. His lips held no aversion, no sarcasm or malice as he continued:

"It's behind us now. We need to focus consciously on now and on the future."

I simply had to push him.

"Couldn't we postpone the dinner?"

Edward frowned sharply, his eyes flashed with the familiar sparks of controlled anger and his voice resonated with authority. He had that look again, the one that told me that I was getting close to the line.

"Isabella, enough! You don't want to go there again! Imagine how pissed I'd be if I had to call and send everybody home just to save you from self-culpability and embarrassment, hm? You can't hide from the world indefinitely. We will have dinner with my family; you will be open to them, charming and free of guilt. Little as you may feel inclined, this is what is expected of you. I want us to have a pleasant evening. I want a quick transition to normality and I think a quiet family dinner is a reasonably convenient way to achieve that. We will take a day or two to rest and then we'll go to see your parents, too. This discussion ends right now!"

There was a fierce, ruthless, severe side to his newly aroused fury. Goose bumps flushed my body and a shiver of apprehension ran up and down my spine. The last sentence was categorical, without any equivoque, leaving me to consider his level of anger, fearfully. Nearly always, my husband politely requested, cordially invited, subtly urged; nowadays he was getting lesser and lesser careful with his imperatives.

That didn't quite stop me, though. I still had one more button to push, another of his limits to test, a new dare for his will.

"We barely spent any time alone together..."

"You'll have my full attention when it's appropriate," he replied quickly, harshly, without taking his eyed from the road. He was unyielding.

We just drove in bitter silence after that, both of us caught in the common inertia following an open disagreement. Pushing him to the point of silent anger was never a smart move. I hated hearing his firm voice and disappointing him.

My eyes dropped to his thigh, flexing as he shifted gears. I remembered our flirt on the plane. What the hell was I doing? Cooking my own goose, stealing my own hat?! Was I so foolish to retreat into the paralysis of inaction just because of a minor divergence and a little bruised pride?

After all, a dinner with his family wasn't so important an issue to me that I couldn't abide by his wish even if I disagreed. Overall, our connection was more important than any particular difference of opinion or other problem we might have. With this recognition, my frustration vanished, replaced by a strong desire to be good and approved by him. His praise quenched an elemental thirst in me, whilst his disappointment burned with an intensity similar to physical pain. The intense rush of emotional bonding that came from the acceptance of this man's authority over my actions and my heart was overpowering and very addictive.

I simply needed to diffuse that fresh hostility before it became another ugly, useless confrontation, before things got heavy and serious again.

"I'm not against seeing your family... only that I wanted a bubble bath, a frugal meal and some quality time with you first... and all I've managed is to make you mad again."

That changed the dynamic in a heartbeat. He didn't respond right away, but when he did, he was no longer angry; his tone was quiet yet still intense.

"No." He reached for my hand, pulled it to his lips and lightly kissed the knuckles with a delicacy that was almost a reverence. "If anything, I'm angry with myself for allowing all these events to happen. In one way or another, by commission or omission, our failings are innately my fault."

"You can't blame yourself for other people's actions, Edward. The Volturi have been trying to undermine your family since as long as you can remember and that Tanya woman was severely deluded, you said so yourself."

He looked at me briefly and his severe expression seemed mollified.

"Unless he is an absolute fool, no man thinks that he is going to be in charge of everything all of the time. With one exception. His woman. So I don't care who's to blame for our recent problem, the responsibility falls to me, because you're mine. My authority as a man is premised and legitimized on my responsibility towards you. I can accumulate and exercise authority and I'm entitled to sanction your behavior only as long as I'm willing to bear the consequences. And that's enough."

Then he parked the car. We were home.

Heaving a huge sigh, I allowed myself to be helped out of the car, instinctively stiffening in preparation for presumptive attacks on my recent wrongs. I felt a peculiar, hollow feeling in my stomach, as though I had done something incredibly stupid and now it was time to pay. Even the door attendant's salute - _"Wonderful to see you again, Mrs. Cullen!"_ – seemed to hold tendentious connotations to my ears. Or maybe I was just being oversensitive.

As we entered, we were exuberantly welcomed with Alice's cries of delight. Everyone came in the hallway and greeted us. I received warm hugs, kisses on the cheek and Edward congratulatory pats on the back.

Alice's questioning glances at Edward made me feel like an outsider for a moment. Signals passed between them that I could not interpret, which might have had to do with the fact that they conspired together to orchestrate the evening.

Alice, with her proverbial, indefatigable verve did not give me much time to pick myself up and properly acknowledge everybody individually before she ushered me to the master bedroom. I turned my head, a little uneasy, to see if Edward was also coming, but saw him opening his cell, already engaged in a talk with the guys, already into male bonding mode. Alice closed the bedroom door, cutting off my view and looked at me searchingly with a smile.

"Are they upset with me?" I asked, weakly.

"Hell, no! Mother is strangely dreamy when she speaks about your adventurous departure and Rosalie is just wondering why you didn't seek Tanya and scratch her eyes out, as she would have done in your place. But of course, she finds the special dynamic between Edward and you endlessly fascinating."

"I'm sure she does."

"I can only presume that you and Edward want us out of here as soon as possible. We'll all be gone before ten o'clock, I promise. I have to release the staff by then, and that gives me a very credible pretext. Here's the deal. The quicker we get you ready, the quicker we can start the dinner and therefore, finish. So don't put up resistance. I've chosen a spectacular dress for you to wear and please, please, please don't make the usual fuss about it."

The black velvet dress Alice had laid on the bed for me had a floor-length, flowing, gorgeous swathe, a halter neck and an open back. Also, it featured a deep, shockingly revealing v-neckline that plunged wickedly far too low for my convenience. I groaned. That dress bordered on inappropriate with the generous amount of cleavage revealed.

"What? This is an elegant dress, absolutely perfect to wear for a black tie occasion."

"Alice," I noted quite perturbed, "I'll be practically naked."

"And yet you won't be."

"I can't present myself in the dinning room wearing that. It's too daring for me."

Alice eyed me in a charmingly fake indignation for a moment before releasing a theatrical sigh. She expected my disagreeing so she pressed her case forward.

"Bella, I was under the impression you had some sort of a _feud_ to settle with my brother. Has anything changed in that respect?" she asked a little maliciously.

"Sadly, no, it hasn't."

"So you want him annihilated or not?" she asked with mock sternness.

"I do, Alice, but still, this dress is too much, it doesn't leave that much to his mind to wonder about. I don't think he's going to like it. You know, maintaining some degree of mystery can be a powerful thing on occasions like this."

"Bella, please trust me! We need to pull out the big guns and this dress is a lethal weapon! You will knock him senseless. But irrespective of that justification, on a level of purely aesthetic splendor, this dress is perfection, and you have no reason to be embarrassed because of it."

She smiled at me and I awkwardly smiled back.

"Please, relax, Bella. No one is mad at you, we're all immensely relieved you're back safely. Focus on you and Edward, that's what really matters. The rest is just water under the bridge. Now, I told the cook we'd be ready to dine in an hour. You have the bedroom to yourself to get ready I mercilessly exiled Edward in the guest room. You know, to add a little suspense."

"That's too bad. I would have loved to watch him getting into his tux."

Alice laughed because she thought I was kidding.

"I'm sure the regret is mutual, that was the plan. Console yourself with the idea that you'll get to see him stripping out of it!"

She moved to the doorway.

"I have to go, see about things. Will you manage by yourself?"

"Sure."

She nodded in approval and closed the door behind her, giving the place a nice, secure feel. I exhaled, trying to dispel with one breath all the tension I'd had coiled inside. I was alone for a while, my thoughts sluggish whispers in the silence; I took a moment to look around the room.

For many weeks, my raison d'être had been contracting around this crazy, oblique belief that if I waited long enough, if I hoped and focused hard enough, the barriers of glass and time keeping me away would melt and I'd be back inside in my own, old life. In my own bedroom. Back in the arms of my man, the only place in the world where I could safely be wrong and imperfect.

Now my relentless vision had become real, tangible. With small, hesitant steps, I approached the nightstand on my side of the bed and I took hold of the book there, the one I was reading when I left. It had remained, unfinished, quiet and uncomplaining, on the nightstand, as a token of my return.

These were creepy thoughts. But when one's dreams come true, the fear of waking up can bring a lingering anxiety.

"_Don't think about that, think about the good stuff, the pure stuff."_

Still absent-minded, I started to take off my travel-weary clothes, dumped them in the laundry basket and stepped naked into the bathroom. I had time for a quick bath after all.

Unlike the last time, now I found the bathroom friendly and comfortable. The floor tiles were warm beneath my soles, there were fresh, soft towels and the vanity was furnished with every amenity. It was then when I saw it. By the sink, proudly doubling itself in the mirror, in a tall, slender vase, one solitary calla lily. In red.

The relaxing scent of the bath oils started to rise in the steamy air and I entered the bathtub while the water was still shallow. I had time but not that much. Sighing, I leaned back in the tub and closed my eyes. The hot water and the fatigue made me feel as though I were in a submersed bubble. My blood pressure had to be very low.

I thought about him getting ready in his bathroom, how he would hold his neck while shaving, how he would put two fingers on his throat and lift his chin up to ease the blade there. I loved to watch him shave.

I opened my eyes and there was the lily again. I smiled. The flower was hypnotic; elegant, refined, it had a certain vibe that made me stare at it. It was as if Edward were in the room.

Leaving the lily for me to find in the bathroom was an overt manifestation of his deep caring. That and his focused authority in the sad world of indifference around us were the greatest aphrodisiacs of all.

I knew its meaning. It was a sexual intimation.

As I combed my hair a good half hour later, I decided to let all that lump of useless worries go. I examined myself in the mirror with a vague self-indulgence. My hair was probably the only thing about my appearance I was remotely vain about but then I thought that people around the world lived happily with problems far more serious than mine.

I felt better. The bath chased my stiffness away a little; Edward's lily had done the rest. Parties are supposed to be fun, beautiful and entertaining and I found as I pulled my hair up for a loose chignon that I was kind of looking forward to it.

I applied only minimal make-up: eye shadow, a little blush and lip gloss. A bit too light perhaps, but the dress was 'heavy' enough. The black stilettos Alice had left for me looked like atrocious torture instruments but I had decided to follow her score. I put on a black garter belt, stockings and a pair of lace and satin panties. Wonderful undergarments for him to discover._ "All the good stuff,"_ I mused, diverted.

I didn't feel dreadfully exposed or on display, the dress felt elegant, slinky and just a little bit dramatic and soon I joined our guests, wearing a pleasant smile and hoping in all honesty for an agreeable evening.

The French doors to the balcony were slightly open and the breeze of my entry into the dining room stirred the flames of the candles; all conversation died for a moment and everyone smiled. The dining room had been transformed by Alice's magic wand into a wonderful scenery, brightly inviting and festive. The women were at the height of elegance in splendid evening gowns and the men looked equally striking in their dashing tuxedos. Still a bit apprehensive, I watched each of them carefully.

Carlisle, with his noble air and silvered hair looked distinguished. He appeared warmer and less guarded than Edward, but, like his son, he was a man of many facets. By his shoulder, Esme, a regal, dignified figure, looked not a day older than forty. Because of that, people didn't immediately recognize her inherent, quiet, intuitive strength. She was wise well beyond her years. They made a handsome couple and they both looked very much at ease.

Jasper was quiet, distantly handsome. I always imagined the fire in him burning with a stable, patient flame; whenever he spoke to me, I felt a delicious calm.

Even under his black evening attire, Emmett looked shamelessly fit as he moved about the place with the typical confidence of big men.

Rosalie emanated glamour and was, as ever, beautiful in her bitter pride. Her evening gown was split and she sat with her legs crossed so that her amazing legs dominated the entire room. It was a good thing that Emmett was so blatantly male or one might have been tempted to question oneself about who really wore the pants in their family. I suspected that she was a handful for Emmett in private but that was not my concern.

I knew she disapproved of me. I was too docile, too quiet, not exciting enough for this perfect family and certainly not an equal match for Edward. I myself liked the imbalance of power between my omnipotent husband and me but that didn't mean I saw myself as less valuable.

I didn't hold that against her. Here and there, I agreed with her. I had even found her dismissive attitude and the eye roll humorous at times. But I suspected she despised me most for my despicable, retrograding self-subjection to my husband. Edward and I didn't advertise his primacy in our relationship, it was not clear to others, but over time, immediate family had been involuntarily given glimpses of something I felt it was too personal to share explicitly.

Indeed, I was just a woman who, upon sincere and sober introspection, realized I was happiest under the lead of the man of my choice. Not too far back into human history, this was considered the norm. A woman who was comfortable with the complexity of our roles in the current era, and yet who understood and valued the injection of something ancient and archetypal into a modern marriage.

Possessed with these thoughts, I was briefly tempted to give Rosalie a long look that said: "You are sooo wrong, so very wrong!" but I refrained and only smiled. Then Emmett broke the ice in his inimitable style:

"Judging by your bony ass, little sister, the food in Europe isn't quite as tasty as they say."

I expected Rosalie to elbow Emmett promptly under his ribs and that to have a salutary effect on his manners, but I could pay no more attention to them; Edward had stepped into the room, looking smart and perfectly groomed in his tuxedo. He entered shutting his cuffs and there was an odd grace even in the simple economy of that movement.

"Please excuse me, everyone, I got retained by a phone call."

The power wielded by him made it as though he walked in a rarefied atmosphere, one that was too rich and sharp for the average man. The sight of him glued me to the spot. I was enthralled. I adored him intensely.

He was masterful and firm, clever, gentle and wise, funny and tender, and knew exactly when and how to reign me in by being able to override any feelings of sullenness, bad temper or resentment. Truth be told, there is nothing more alluring to a woman than a man who knows himself, knows what he wants, knows what _she_ wants, and how to give it to her. I was once again thankful for this man who meant more to me with every passing day.

He neared me, giving me that charming smile of his, which I had always found so irresistible and his darkened eyes held me whole. His very sensual smile, beautiful, unreserved made my heart melt inside my chest.

The traditional black tie attire calls for a classic black bow tie, as a rule, improperly tied. His was perfectly askew, exactly the way it should, therefore demanding my attention. I made it my business to straighten it and openly took my time with it. I combed out nonexistent lint from his satin lapels only to consider that I was not quite through with the righting of his tie.

He barely took his eyes off me the whole time.

Eventually, I had to get done and he bent closer to kiss me gently on the cheek in gratitude. His breath tickled my ear as he whispered:

"Certain moments in time become instantly encased in the amber of memory. This is one of them. If I saw you every day, forever, I would still remember this very instant."

I poured all the sweetness I had in my soft, breathy reply.

"I loved the lily, it made me feel...special. Thank you."

Something dark and rich traversed Edward's eyes but before he could answer, Alice's head popped up from behind his shoulder.

"Hey, you two, split up now! In case you haven't noticed, you have company."

"Your timing is impeccable, as always, Alice," Edward muttered, only half-serious.

"Yes, I know. You're lucky I'm around," she wittily prompted.

"I'll be forever in your debt for that," Edward replied with the same playful sarcasm attached.

Alice just laughed and waved dismissively:

"Go mingle! Go, go!"

As the waiter began to serve us drinks, slowly, deferentially, I approached Esme.

"I wanted to say I'm sorry, Esme, for the way I..."

"Don't worry, Bella, I understand. Although at my age there are no crises left in marriage, I remember how it used to be. I remember quite well..." She took my hand, reassuringly and her words trailed off, leaving instead a little faraway smile. She sounded strangely melancholic, too, not like her at all.

The dinner was about to be served and from force of habit, I started to consider the table arrangements. Since we were a multiple of four, I knew I'd lose my place at the end of the table. In such situations, the host and the hostess never sit opposite each other.

Edward, as host and therefore, a more important personage, would keep his seat at the end of the table, the more so as the seat of honor was on his right. And that was were Esme should rightfully be placed, as the elder woman in the room. I mentally placed Carlisle at the other end of the table and I imagined I would get to sit next to him and not in the place which was properly my own.

At some point, I realized I wasn't in charge with those duties tonight. Alice was and she had probably already figured the table diagram. Simultaneously, I saw Edward approaching me and, with an elegant bow, in a very gentlemanly style, offering me his arm.

A lady is taken in to dinner by the gentleman on whose right she sits and obviously I was going to be escorted at the table by my handsome husband.

I look at him inquisitively. He smiled and said gently:

"You have been long away. In this instance of welcoming you home, you become the lady of honor and I have the pleasure of being your appointed gentleman for tonight."

Alice, the shrewd! I glanced at her and she just showed me a grin, restrained, conspiratorial yet filled with gleeful satisfaction.

I gracefully slid my hand into the curve of his elbow and he led the way, everyone fallowing us in an orderly procession. The table looked wonderful: creamy, faultlessly laundered damask napery, brilliantly polished silverware, crystal glasses repeating the candle flames. Alice was skilful and no detail was amiss. I seated myself on Edward's right, near Jasper and in front of Esme. I lifted the cutlery and we all commenced dining.

"Imagine, Bella, Edward has finally agreed to let me do something about that horrendous office of his," Esme said to me.

It was a wonderfully neutral subject to open a dinner conversation and I exclaimed my interest, encouraging her to continue. She did so and I watched her look up at her son with an expression of amused affection, love and trust, pride and admiration.

Edward, seemingly impervious to her stare, flashed his winsome smile and - always a cordial and hospitable host - started to chat amiably, in soothing tones, with the same amazing ease as his mother's.

As the evening progressed, the conversation become livelier, any awkwardness long since vanished. Save for Emmett's comment on my figure and my apology to Esme, any other mention of my absence and its questionable justification was studiously avoided. I began to feel an intensely rushing current of peace within my soul. I was home. Home with people I loved.

Something Emmett said made Edward tilt his head back and roar with laughter, startling me. I wasn't accustomed to seeing him so unfettered; he almost never laughed aloud, his amusement more often than not expressed by a flicker in his eyes, at most. I didn't care why he was laughing. I simply let myself soak in that rich, masculine sound that melted my insides but which erupted so rarely, only when something struck him as extremely droll or, better yet, ironic.

He caught me staring.

"What is it, Bella?"

I shook my head, reassuringly.

"Nothing. I just enjoy hearing you laugh. You do it so seldom."

The table was being cleared for dessert when I heard Alice addressing me:

"Here, Bella, a little welcome-home gift from everybody," she said, handing me an envelope over the table.

I looked at her questioningly, in surprise. I had my fair share of strange envelopes lately. She smiled reassuringly and motioned me to open it. What I found inside made me exclaim, delighted:

"Look, Edward, opera tickets!"

His eyes gleamed in the soft light cast by the flames. We looked at each other silently. It would have been nice to have had the evening for ourselves but the alternative did turn out to be a very pleasant one.

The tickets reminded me I had also bought a little something for each of them, cufflinks for the guys, bracelets for the girls, and the moment to give them was just right. I excused myself, rose discreetly from the table and went to the bedroom where the suitcases had been taken, to get the gifts.

I didn't hear him entering after me; only the buzz of the party fading as the door quietly closed behind him betrayed his presence. With his uncanny way of coming in my space, he neared me from behind and without warning, grabbed a handful of hair and pulled my head back, straightening my spine.

I expected him to kiss me, to kiss me firmly, but he just studied me. He brought his face closer to mine, close enough for me to see his expanding pupils. He took some reading in my eyes, perceiving everything, without a doubt.

I just stood there, under his quiet perusal, arms limp at my sides, still holding a gift bag, face tilted up to the ceiling, lips parted, neck exposed. My nape tingled from his warm, hard hand, and I felt my knees beginning to tremble. His gaze surveyed in silence my face, my neck, my low-cut cleavage for another minute. Only then, he spoke, quietly, conspiratorially, perfectly aware of his peculiar power of electrifying every cell in my body with nothing but his voice.

"Isabella, I've read somewhere that food appeals to taste and smell, the oldest senses and the closest to the center of the mind." He inhaled deeply, audibly. "Your scent is intoxicating, love. And I bet you taste just as maddening."

I shuddered all the way to my womb. Silvery threads of pleasure teased down my spine, spreading through my thighs. Weakening me.

"I want to kiss you but I'll refrain for now, because..." his voice dropped even lower, "I fear I may not be able to remain a gentleman for the remaining evening."

I was barely in control of my deeply female response. There was a brief flash of what was almost a grin and then, just as quietly, he walked away, leaving me gasping slightly.

Round two had ensued. What was next I shuddered to imagine.

My head was strangely light and a silly, involuntary smile flourished on my lips. My husband knew me so well… He was my weakness, I couldn't fight him. I loved what he did. I loved the feeling he gave me, it thrilled me and made me sinfully delighted at the same time.

Had we been alone, I would have given over to the deep seated gut reaction of fierce pleasure my husband's words and actions caused right away. Instead, I waited a minute or two to recompose my face, and only after I returned to the dining room.

I was feeling…different. Languidly viscous. Underneath my luxurious evening dress, my knees were weak, and my skin felt hot and flushed. Really hot. Itching. Throbbing. Wet on the inside leaking out. The satin on my skin felt so fragile, as soft as rose petals, making me terribly aware of my every move.

Oh, it was exciting to use our private code in public, as long as I had the certainty that the rest of the world was left in the dark regarding the deeper meaning. Much of the emotional power in our very adult play lay in the fact that us both knew how things really were between each other, the hinting reminders, the deliciousness of the unstated.

The men had left the table and they were arranging a basketball game meant to ignite and spend their animalistic, male aggression. They were already raucously provoking each other, making bets and playing silly. I could think of better, more apt ways to channel all that energy but that was just my feminine, pathetic angle.

I took a sip from the flute of champagne and offered him a smile when I saw him checking me out. Imperceptibly challenging him from across the room, although he could clearly read me without hesitation. An enigmatic smile played in response around the corner of his mouth.

The rest of the dinner became a silent torment. Memories flared. I was battered by desire, recalling pleasure, contemplating random, precious flashes of experiences similar to the recent, furtive bedroom scene. Scenarios and fantasies were multiplying in my mind and I could think of little else but our intimate interlude and its implications. I had to focus very hard in order to continue to converse politely, articulately with my table neighbors.

At some point, I heard Alice purling suavely in my ear:

"Somebody's distracted."

"I'll admit that."

"I was talking about my brother, silly."

I sneaked a peek at him. He was engrossed in a quiet talk with his father, seemingly completely oblivious to the rest of us.

"You think so?"

"I know so. But since you seem stricken with the same disease, I think you may lack perspective. Guess I was right, huh? Time to take the gang out of here! Don't let him get away too easy."

Alice discreetly signaled to the others it was time to go and soon after we were seeing our guests to the door.

And then we were alone at last.

Like silk unfolding, he slid behind my back and I didn't even manage to lock the door before his hands were at my hips, drawing me against him.

"Don't turn around!" he ordered with a sudden, startling growl, blocking my movement with his figure. The commanding tone was hard to mistake and I shivered deliciously at the sound of his voice.

It was a heady feeling, desire.

**Thank you kindly for reading.**


	15. Chapter 15

**Well, I admit to being a little partial to the "Please, Edward, please..." scene from the last book.**

* * *

Patient, almost patronizing, he repeated his instructions. "Don't move. Stay as you are..."

He was standing right behind me, so close that I thought I felt the heat of his body. So close that my rational mind gradually started to shut down. His breath tickled the nape of my neck and raised pimples up and down my arms, making me shudder.

I sensed him move and heard a faint rustle of fabric but I stayed as he requested, with my back at him, facing the front door.

"I like your hair up like this," he said after a pause, in gentle tones that slid down my spine, arousing and soothing, just like his hands moving over my shoulders and down my arms. "It makes a delightful combination of exposure and vulnerability," he said, marking the beginning of our delicate and difficult dance, the kind that could not be rehearsed or scripted.

"Edward, what are you doing?"

The question was futile for a number of reasons, but I had to be consistent with my role.

"Nothing special, my dear. Only that it's high time to satisfy those seeking special after-dinner delights."

I smiled to myself; what it was desired and needed hereinafter was a dish best served in bed, not in a hallway. _"Oh, but any place would do,"_ I conceded naughtily.

His fingers were stroking my neck where his breath had warmed my skin, the touch so tender it was almost reverent. I thought of the door. Closed but not locked. A houseful of guests just having departed...

"Edward, somebody may return..."

His mouth replaced his fingers and he began to kiss me, moving from my jaw line down my neck with an almost agonizing slowness, his hot tongue licking softly where the pulse was throbbing closest to the skin.

"Let me worry about that."

He sounded a bit displeased at the interruption. Somehow, I managed another complaint, while working hard to conceal my delight.

"They're not even in the parking lot yet..."

"Dismiss all thought of the matter, Isabella!" His stern tone sent a tremor of excitement running through my body. "I believe a man can do as he desires with his wife, in his house, provided he doesn't annoy the neighbors, of course. You are my wife, remember?"

Settling at the base of my throat, he bit me lightly and I jolted, a faint gasp escaping my lips. His kiss increased in pressure, suckling, knowing he would leave a mark. Intending to leave a mark.

"It's not unreasonable for me to wish to be the man in my own home, now, is it?"

"No..."

"So will you stop questioning my status as a man in control, having the right to do what he wants on his property, _with_ his property?"

His breath on my neck, just at the top of my spine, made me almost incapable of answering his question. _"How does he know that the skin of the neck is connected to the sex so closely, that just a brief caress will make a woman wet?"_

I breathed.

"I will..."

"Good." His tone implied that further argument on the subject would have been futile, anyway. "I must admit I quite enjoy Alice's choice as your outfit for tonight..." His voice had dropped to a pleasant rumble resonating through the wall of his chest. "So sublimely subtle, reflecting exquisite touch. Remind me to compliment her later on her sartorial taste."

In my view, the dress was far from subtle, but I found I was strangely disinclined to sustain my opinion for the moment. His fingers at the moment were caressing deftly the depression between my collarbones, feeling for my pulse that accelerated under his touch.

"Why?" I inquired smiling, both pleased and amused by his surprising admission. "I suspect a very...earthly reason."

Leaning closer, he whispered into the layers of my hair:

"It featured a very powerful, subliminal statement of femininity..." Then again, a chant: "No bra..."

"Oh..."

"An artful exhibition that has been most terribly distracting. All evening long, I could look at nothing but your breasts, swaying, alluring, beckoning to me. Such a delicate, intimate promise..." he further clarified the matters, letting his fingers run along my nape down my spine.

"It was hard to get through dinner with guests without being sidetracked by the...improper thoughts that particular sight unavoidably provoked," he whispered, his lips close to my ear.

Everywhere his lightly trailing fingers went, they left behind aroused nerve endings pleading for more. He was now caressing slowly, with feather-like touches the sides of my ribcage over the fabric of the dress.

"You seemed unaffected to me... perfectly in control of yourself, as usual," I finally managed to say, leaning a little back into him.

He carefully slid his hands up my ribcage, stopping just under my breasts. Those light, elusive touches on my body had a softer and more seductive quality than an overt, unabashed groping. My breasts began to throb and my back arched involuntarily, offering them for more but he avoided touching me more significantly.

"A man can have calm control over himself in general, but still be able to display his passion when appropriate. I'm sure there's no real need for me to remind you the truism about the appearances that can be deceiving... although I don't intend to lose that self-control anytime soon."

His tone was so calm and even that I listened to it first, rather than to the actual words. I was too absorbed in savoring the delicious tingle his fingertips produced at the under side of my breasts. Abruptly, what he had just said downed on me. I swallowed a gasp and asked in a rush, more than just alarmed.

"I hope withholding sex isn't the punishment you have in mind for me, Edward, because that would be awfully cruel of you!"

He laughed lightly.

"No, love. Not sex."

I exhaled, immensely relieved and relaxed again under his touch.

He brushed burning lips across my ear and breathed into it.

"Just my cock."

"You...what?!"

"I am temporarily depriving you of my penis, Bella," he explained with dead calm as he brushed his lips against the back of my shoulder.

"You can't possibly be serious!"

I fidgeted, enraged and bewildered, trying to turn around but he wrapped his arms around my waist, his deadly grip keeping me still.

"I said not to turn around!" he said harshly and his hot breath stirred over the fine hairs on the back of my neck, making me shiver again.

"You have to be fucking kidding me!"

"Language, Isabella."

"This is a gratuitous and mean exercise of control and dominance!"

"Fighting my decision will only add to your sentence, love," he informed me imperturbably and his tone tolerated no contradiction. I exhaled audibly in frustration.

"For how long?" I managed to stammer out.

"That depends on how pleased I am with you," he answered with pedantic superiority. A wicked nip of his teeth against my shoulder followed, then a slow, erotic lick over the mark he had left on the flesh between my neck and shoulder a moment before.

I nearly moaned but refrained in time. I had a battle to fight. Although the fight was to be conducted on his terms, I believed I still had some chances.

"Many things can be excused to those who repent. I am extremely remorseful for what I've done...and in the future I'll be very-very good..."

He chuckled at my eagerness, low and rumbling like a lion. In my haste, I had overbid my own offer much too quickly.

"Now, don't be sad..." he falsely consoled me. "There's so much more to sex then simply the act. From the moment the evening started, we began our lovemaking. Didn't you feel it? My eyes on you...my words in your ear… I know you're feeling it now. I can sense it in the way your body heats under my hand."

To fight him, knowing my strength and self-control to be less than his, was to invite defeat; a denouement foretold from the beginning. Nevertheless, I welcomed the prospect and enjoyed the thrill of being mentally and physically overcome. Deep inside, I loved being vulnerable to my man. There was something primal, overwhelming and intensely arousing in being defeated in advance by his masculine power.

Still, I needed to be a worthy opponent. I would not surrender without resistance. Now, where was the fun in that? Who values an easy victory?

It was the electricity in the game that was exciting, the measuring of will power, the struggle to give in or not, the need to test and fight in spite of the certain knowledge that paradoxically, victory was not really possible except through surrender.

I recalled the games we'd played in the past, their main rationale being his belief that the buildup of passion, although maddening and frustrating, was as delectable as the act itself. I agreed though; teasing was a delicious erotic play and the best form of flirting. It was a subtle battle over power that led us into greater intimacy, the dynamics of our interaction infused, absolutely saturated with sexual tension. I too, savored the anticipation even if it drove me insane. I couldn't say I didn't enjoy it, the frustration, the creativity. Followed by the deep, ardent fucking.

What turned me on hugely was his struggle to keep himself focused and in control at the same time as he coaxed me to higher and higher peaks of arousal. How could he do that and manage himself at the same time was beyond my power of comprehension.

I remembered how he teased me until the scorching desire threatened to boil my blood; how he used his male attributes, his appeal to raise and maintain in me an inescapable need, which only had to be surmounted; how I always ended whimpering helplessly and pleading for him to fuck me.

It would be definitely unbecoming to beg so early in the evening, though; I forced my mind back to the battlefield.

"I have been thinking of nothing but for quite a while..." I said quietly, in all honest candor.

He laughed, a bit too sharply.

"You don't believe me?"

"Oh, not for a moment did I think your confession insincere. You will have my cock inside you, as you desire, my greedy Bella. Soon. But not tonight."

"I really can't see the benefit of it!" I riposted in fresh, genuine infuriation.

"I would've thought that being punished excludes the concept of having benefits."

I groaned in exasperation. "Edward, why are you doing this to me? To us? After all this time... And how about you?!... Wouldn't that be a punishment for you at least as much as it is for me? I can feel how hard you are..." I said, intently brushing my ass against the front of his pants.

"I can wait, my dear," he said with a voice so patient and controlled, it sent shivers racing down my spine. "And I think I'll be the winner regardless!"

My breath caught as he flicked his hot tongue around my earlobe, slow, tantalizing.

"My concern is for your arousal and pleasure but it is my own, deeply selfish pleasure that drives that concern. I trust I am able to bring you to pleasure in other ways as well and I'll be immensely entertained... and fully satisfied with the exquisite reward of seeing you... feeling you...making you...come."

I knew he meant it. Treacherous longing started to spread in my body, as if his words were a sweet poison, intoxicating, addictive. I sighed, whined a little.

"Sooner or later, you will become dissatisfied in that barren, abstemious wasteland in which you're isolating yourself..."

"A man taking-but-not-quite-taking plays on the edges of his own needs and resistances, the just barely under control lack of control. Erotic denial is teasing in its purest form and it certainly affords the most exquisite pleasures for a man. In our case, it also serves my purpose of punishing you for your recent lapses in judgment."

"Your self-control is unnatural, Edward! Are you sure you are even human?"

He stilled for a second, his lips wet on my throat.

"Stop complaining or I'll be even more drastic!" he threatened in the silkiest voice. "Is that what you want?"

Once he so wickedly asserted himself, I temporarily lost all desire to be combative. I knew he manipulated me, at times more than I cared to admit, but I wondered if he realized that I knew how much, how extended his influence was. Despite that, I never felt adversely affected or taken advantage of. He was a bright man.

"No..." I breathed.

"Good. I thought so."

I felt his hands trailing down my dress. I tried to peek at him.

"Be still, I said!"

The harsh command froze me.

He clutched the heavy material and with one determined, forceful motion, tore the skirt from the hem almost up to the waist, the side seam giving in between his strong fists. The sound of the fabric ripping startled me and made me giddy at the same time.

"Now, that's what I call a stunning gown..." His words were almost growled.

"Alice will kill you for this..." I said, trying very hard not to smile and failing successfully.

"No, she won't. I rather suspect she'll approve."

He dropped to his knees behind me and I felt his hands at my ankles.

"You can forego the shoes. From the fine tremor of your legs, I'm guessing they're bothering you," he noticed thoughtfully, slipping the straps of my shoes over my heels so they came off. He slid his hands up my calves beneath the skirt, then I felt them insinuating between my knees. I heard his murmured agreement when his hand met with the top of my stockings. Slowly, carefully, he pulled the panties down my legs then around my ankles and off my feet.

"Tearing panties...now that's a waste. They can be put to much better use..."

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him slipping the delicate garment into his left pocket as he stood up.

"A treat for later," he murmured, his lips gently brushing a very sensitive place behind my ear.

"Yes, Edward, I can see so clearly now how different tearing lingerie is from ripping other pieces of clothing, like evening gowns, for instance."

"There's a world of difference, love," he rumbled into my ear from behind. "I imagine that your breasts are tender by now? Sensitive? Heavy? Do they ache to be touched?"

My breasts throbbed in response to his sly questions, warm and heavy, as if they were yearning for space. He adeptly reached his cupped hand into the deep neckline of my gown and exposed my left breast, bringing it into the open air; the cool of the room quickly made the bare nipple harden. He circled the areola with his index, a light caress I barely felt. There was nothing urgent or insistent in that touch.

"This also will be a treat for later, love. Having too much fine food at once can make one insensitive to the more refined details. Especially after a long fasting."

I felt his hands stroking from the curve of my breast to my waist, then gliding along the rounded contour of my hip. His fingers continued their downward path and crept between the newly achieved side slit of my skirt. In next to no time, they were fluttering along my upper thigh, caressing the band of naked skin uncovered by my stockings.

I breathed out his name. He cupped my inner thigh.

"I can feel your heat...," he crooned as his hand drew closer and closer to the saturated folds of my sex.

"You are so wet, Bella... Is this for me?"

The velvet timbre of his voice caressed my ear and my mind's eye. So many implied promises... My breath began to come faster.

"I don't hear your answer, Isabella. This is only for me, isn't it?"

"For you and because of you..."

"Did you engage in any guilty pleasures lately?"

"What...what do you mean?"

"Did you touch yourself while I was away?"

My breathing stopped.

"Now, don't be coy, Mrs. Cullen. Come on... Divulge secrets...unfold confessions... Unbind mysteries..."

He punctuated each word with light, agonizing strokes of my outer lips.

"Tell me now and I'll know if you lie!"

"Yes." I said the single word steadily, not even thinking of denying.

"Naughty Bella..." his voice barely there. "How many times?"

"Just once..."

"I don't believe you!" he said, retrieving his hand from where it had been wandering so wonderfully.

"No, please, this is the truth..."

"Are you sure?!" he teased some more.

"Yes..."

His wicked fingers mercifully returned and continued their sensuous exploration. I moaned my gratitude and he chuckled against my ear.

"When exactly?"

"In Sweden..."

"I'm afraid I need you to be more specific than that."

"The night you called me."

"Oh, yes... I remember you sounded like you were in a hedonistic mood that night... And how was it?"

It was so typical for him to torment me at the same time as he inflamed me. Curious how things can work on you even when you recognize them.

"Please, Edward, do you really need specifics?! I'm a shy girl; I need to be slowly unwrapped not insistently torn open."

He chuckled, deeply amused.

"Answer the question, Isabella, or I'll stop right now and won't finish."

"It wasn't as productive as it could have been," I replied ambiguously, the breath tight in my throat.

"Oh, and so the discussion goes back to my cock, isn't it?" he laughed hoarsely.

As usual, he was very quick to slice to the point and keep things on track. The frustration provoked by his unusual form of punishment added to my arousal but also to my bravery.

"Something like that...and I don't see why not. Everything a woman values most in life can be directly attributed to her husband's penis. Mankind would have long ago perished without the achievements, creations, and pregnancies driven by the cock-generated impulses. To deny, evade, or seek to rewrite male nature, male predation, male selfishness is irrational. That's why I don't get you... If you deny yourself, strangling your own needs, then you're cutting yourself off from the very source of your...male power."

I felt him laugh more than heard it.

"You're digressing towards a tangent that is immaterial to our discussion. This is not about me, love, it's about you. And on a side note, I don't remember saying anything about denying myself."

He was still tracing the soft contours of my pulsating, steaming folds.

My discourse had sounded a bit strangled to my own ears, the hitches in it more than noticeable. I expelled my next breath slowly to disguise a moan and I tried to ignore what he was doing to me and focus on my speech instead. Sometimes, men just get blinded when a woman adds a creamy layer of butter on their ego. That was why I considered my very eloquent diatribe still incomplete, so I expanded on it, emboldened by his amusement.

"This is not a laughing matter. The men should be aware that women are very different creatures; a woman can experience the act of being conquered and fucked by her man as not only intensely pleasurable, but also deeply fulfilling, ennobling even. It can be essential to her sensitivity that thus, her womanhood is fully expressed and honored."

He laughed again with obvious satisfaction, a throaty chuckle, sensuous and warm that washed over my womb like a wave of heat.

"This is, of course, gratifying to hear. Are you by any chance trying to seduce me by engaging in abstract discussions of sexuality?"

I needed to tread more carefully. Too much forwardness on my part would only remind him of his game, and that would only prolong the wait.

"Would you rather I denied it?"

"Oh, Isabella, you do know how to flatter a man. It is very pleasing to hear you so forthright and I certainly agree that this is the right path to attaining my full focus, attention, and desire. Just be sure you're prepared for what might come out of statements like that."

"How pleasing?" I asked, sounding breathless.

"You would like me to show you, wouldn't you?" His deep voice vibrated against my ear with a smile.

"Very much, yes..." I admitted, almost imperceptibly.

He slid his hand lower between my legs and a moist sigh escaped me when he opened my damp inner lips, pressing down tenderly.

"Here?" he asked, pushing just the pad of his finger inside me. I swallowed a groan and widened my stance slightly to give him better access.

"Yes," I whispered ardently. I shivered and clenched my muscles around it, an attempt to draw it deeper inside.

"Imagine my finger to be my cock. Can you do that?" he devilishly asked, dipping his fingertip just a little further.

My breaths deepened and the only response I could manage was a whimper.

"Can you feel this?"

Carefully, gradually, he slipped one long finger into my hot sheath. I gasped and writhed, pleasure and need flaring.

"Would normally my cock be doing this to you?"

Another dip, another gasp. I curved my spine in delight, leaning back, swaying my hips, rubbing my bare shoulders against his shirtfront.

"Yes."

"Do you like it?"

Oh, the man and his million questions!

"Was that a yes or a no, Bella? I couldn't quite understand that sound."

"Yes." All I could do was to whimper the word.

"Do you, now…" he said thickly.

"You know I do."

"You'll like it better when I'm inside you," his honey-sweet voice poured smoothly in my ear, making my knees weaken. His fingers returned to probing tantalizingly at the entrance to my body with fleeting touches, fingertips barely entering. I moaned and melted back into him.

"Please, deeper..."

"I'll go deeper if you let me hear how much you like it."

A smile curled my lips, impulsive. If there was something Edward was vulnerable to, this was it. My moans of pleasure. Having his attention distracted would work to my advantage. Maybe I was going to win for once at his game.

I leaned into his body until I was wholly dependent on his support of me. His scented cheekbone slicked on mine as he nuzzled my neck. I let my head fall back, turning my face up to his, asking for his lips. I moaned into his mouth, and he reacted, as sharp fingers dug into my trembling thigh, pulling me closer onto him. I felt his erection, that rigid column of hot flesh pressing hard into the base of my spine.

He slid again his long, smooth finger inside, all the way into the creamy depths, making a brief, succulent sound. My pulse leapt and I groaned in pure delight, my flesh quivering and clenching around his digit.

"See? Deep, as promised..."

I moved against him, rolling my hips in a languid manner and I felt his chest vibrate with a low growl as I deliberately pushed against his erection. I slid my hand between us to feel his cock; I yearned to fit my palm along its stiff length.

Lightning fast, with no hesitation, he captured my hand before it reached its destination and brought it to his lips. His other hand stilled its caresses and I let out a tiny groan of frustration.

"Patience is a virtue you certainly seem disinclined to achieve," he observed quietly, in an almost severe manner.

"No. I'm not impatient," I said, tartly. "It's just that this isn't the sort of teasing I am in the mood for tonight."

"That's too bad..." he intoned, turning my prisoner-hand over to kiss my palm. "Because I'm going to add to it. Something must be done to correct this tendency of yours; you really need to be schooled in patience. So, tonight you are not allowed to touch. That's my prerogative alone."

"That's not fair!"

"Oh, of that there is no doubt. Don't fight me, Isabella, or this will take an eternity," he promised in a very quiet, grave tone.

The threat had some effect but not enough to hush my vociferous complaints.

"There will be many other occasions to tease me and teach me patience in bed but, please, please, pretty please not tonight..."

He pulled his finger out, leaving me writhing in an agony of want.

"Shall I stop?" he prompted, the sound very low.

And again, maybe I was not going to win. I was forced to concede this round to him.

"No..." I pleaded meekly.

"Keep in mind, Isabella," he warned coolly, "I can take away other privileges as well." His finger returned deeper inside me, thrusting, getting more precise with each of his words. "It's irritating," he said lowering his voice, "...to have to resort to threats in dealing with you."

I could feel his hand on my sex getting hotter, melting into me, as if wave after wave of deep heat were steaming up from my vortex. He pushed my labia together, rolling them against one another so that they slipped and slide.

"You're filling with moisture, love..."

I whimpered, the sound tender and helpless.

"I want nothing more than to bury my face in your wetness until I am marked and covered and immersed totally in your scent. I cherish and savor such moments whenever and wherever I find them. What do you say?! Shall I have a taste? I bet the flavor is going to drive me mad."

I didn't respond. I seemed unable to focus sufficiently. Perhaps he took my silence as hesitancy so he pressed his cause, the voice low, like the vibrating strings of a cello.

"I'm a parched man, Isabella... I need to drink... I need to drown myself in your fount."

That elicited an irrepressible whimper.

"Turn around and brace yourself against the door," he said gently. It wasn't exactly an order, but it wasn't a request either.

"Edward, please..."

"Hush and do as I say," he whispered and the weak protest died on my tongue. I yielded to his command. I turned to face him and I noticed he had removed his evening jacket, which was now tossed on the floor. I finally met his gaze. A playful, meaningful smile was twinkling in his eyes. I watched him intently, trying to measure his resolve but that was too ambitious a task for the moment.

He knelt before me and opened the slit in the skirt, exposing my legs. With a preoccupied, concentrated expression, he lightly touched my garter belt before deftly unfastening each stocking in front, then behind. Fastidiously, he rolled the stockings down my legs, inch by agonizing inch, stroking the skin as he uncovered it.

After that, he picked up my left leg and rested my thigh on his shoulder, my weight balancing on him and on our very acquiescent and very unlocked front door. His breath caught a little as he faced my open folds and the result of a good Swedish wax job. I had to stifle a little triumphant smile.

Firm hands were now gripping on my ass, supporting and holding me tightly in place while he, with a shrewd smile, occupied himself kissing the inside of my thigh. He nipped and sucked the delicate flesh, pulling firmly the sensitive skin between his teeth then soothing it with soft open-mouthed kisses and strokes of his tongue. He was leaving a love-bite. He was thorough, methodical. Ceremonial. He was branding me again with the same controlled, deliberate intensity with which he did everything.

It hurt yet it didn't. There was something intensely arousing in knowing that for the next few days, under my clothes, where no one else could see, I would bear his mark.

He put a halt to his attentions and stood still, waiting for me to look at him. His gaze intently locked with mine and his eyes were burning, intensely like a green fire. I read that look in his eyes. '_I know you',_ it said. '_I know your limits, know how far I can push you'._

Very slowly, very deliberately he stated aloud:

"I've starved for a long time and now it is time for my feast."

He hovered over me and resting his mouth very lightly over my opening, he inhaled my scent slowly, breathing just enough for me to feel the air playing across the wet lips, across my quivering clit. He inhaled deeply again, then his velvety tongue played down one side, then the other, meticulously parting my labia. He dragged it upward, closer and closer to where I needed it most but gave me only a swirling tease over my clit before poking it inside.

He began a rhythm that shortly became an erotic torture: slid his tongue into me, drew it up, pull it flat and slowly over my clit, sucking a little, then starting over. His tongue danced over every petal and fold; little flicks of the tongue, stray nibbling kisses, long, luxurious licks. Slow, easy, fast. It was sweet, glorious agony.

Looking down, I watched. I couldn't help but watch. The muscles in my abdomen tightened and my clit began to throb furiously in response to his tongue of fire lashing against me and into me, everywhere.

I broke the eye connection and weak, defenseless, I let my head drop against the door with a soft thud. My breath was coming out in rapid, shallow rasps, punctuated by whimpers. I felt myself rocketing towards orgasm, but wise as ever, he withdrew his tongue, impervious to my moans of protest.

I closed my eyes and with an open-mouthed sigh, I confessed quietly, in absolute surrender.

"If you touch me now, I'll come."

"I know." He sounded like he was smiling but the strain was getting evident in his voice, too. "And I think I've just decided to admire a little longer the exquisite view you're providing. Would you like me to describe it to you?"

I could not respond to that coherently. The mere idea was enough to drive me crazy. I panted frantically; shivers bolted down my spine and the leg supporting me began to tremble slightly from tension and anticipation.

"Imagine a dark red rose bud. A fresh, young, perfect little rose bud..."

I could come from his words alone. Only from his breathing over my folds if he happened to do so. A pained whimper of need escaped me.

"Please, Edward..."

His breath there, oh, it was hot, so hot and it burned and I burned for his touch.

"...glistening wet with dew, passionately throbbing for attention... for love." His blackened eyes stared up at me, narrowed and gleaming with heat as his lips parted in an almost feral grin. His voice turned thick on a sudden with deep, savage anticipation. "It's a pity that such perfection is going to be marred in symbolic devouring!"

With these words, he swiftly bent his head and the sensual snarl with which he planted his lips around my clit again made me groan. His lips clamped over the small bud and just sucked hard, his tongue flicking the sensitive tip over and over, torturing me. Abruptly, his thumb slid through my slippery folds. I ground against his face with my head thrown back, my mouth open, my ribs heaving, as he stroked his tongue over my clit again and again, in time with his thumb fucking me.

I could hold back no longer. Waves of unbearable desire attacked me. I cried out, a long, agonized, raspy sound I hadn't made in a very long time.

He waited for me to finish, pressing his tongue flat against my clit until it stopped pulsing, until the last spasm dissipated, leaving me limp and breathless. He reluctantly pulled away as my leg on his shoulder went back to the floor. I felt him rising from his knees, on his way up briefly kissing my swollen nipple. I swayed, my legs refusing to hold my weight, and he folded strong arms around me, steadying me, supporting me with his body.

"Splendid," he concluded huskily, a vaporous, quickly dissipating whisper of appreciation, his breath on my cheek hot, thick with need, his tender touch still alive on my breast. I opened my eyes; I was still drunk with pleasure and my brain was fuzzy.

Pressure from his hand coaxed my head up to meet his eyes.

"You taste so much better than I remembered, love."

He leaned in for a kiss, soft, brief, still gently holding me against him. He tasted musky. Sweet. Of course, when I told him so, he merely smiled.

"I cannot take credit for that. I've had help. If I had to use an analogy, I would say I've just enjoyed a juicy peach and its abundance of delicious flavors, tastes and oh-so-delightful textures."

"You're very poetic of a sudden..." I observed, thankful that my voice had not left me completely.

He showed me another wicked smile.

Except for the evening jacket and his bow tie, he was still fully dressed. He could have opened the door to an unannounced visitor and appear completely decent and presentable, whereas I was neither. I looked seriously disarrayed: I was barefoot, my gown was askew and split to the hip, my confiscated panties were tucked in the pocket of his very proper pants and my décolleté was...well, it wasn't quite a décolleté anymore. And I could only speculate about the expression on my face or the state of my hair.

My behavior tonight had been far from a perfectly ladylike fashion.

He took a step back and examined me intently with a red, sly smile and pleasure in his eyes.

"You're embarrassing me, staring like that..." I said feebly, arranging the bodice somewhat back into place.

"You look charmingly disheveled."

"Well, I cannot take credit for that. I've had help."

He chuckled in response.

Unexpectedly, he bent and lifted me in his arms, heading towards the bedroom. I felt good in his embrace, so deliciously exhausted, surrounded like that with his physical strength and warmth, which were making me aware of being vulnerable and small and so terribly female.

I clung to him, pressing my face into his neck to inhale his special scent that was far too appealing to be just cologne. I sensed citrus, soap and a tang of spicy male sweat.

The way Edward smelled was one of the sexiest things about him. The allure of his scent, so potent, so strong always made me breathe deeply and wanting more, dizzying my mind and driving me insane. Of course, it might just have had something to do with the male pheromones but biological explanations were too feeble in their cold, clinical aspect to dilute either the eroticism or that kind of attraction. Oh, Edward, my scented male.

"Where are you taking me?" I asked airily.

"To bed. To sleep," he quickly clarified. "What kind of gentleman would intentionally keep you up so late after you've been through an experience so...vivid?"

"I don't want to sleep. I have other plans," I protested, already a bit slumberous. He chuckled.

"I'm sure you do, but your plans can wait. You need the rest. I'm going to join you shortly."

"I'm officially protesting!"

"That's duly noted."

"And unofficially ignored..."

"Isabella, who's driving the bus?"

"You are."

"That's right. Keep that in mind."

Pressed like that against his warmth, lulled by the reverberation of his cultured, smooth voice resonating in his chest, I understood what gave a cat the urge to purr. The deep rumble of his voice had a wonderfully soporific influence. Cat or not, I did my best to purr, indicating that he should not, under any circumstances, stop holding me so pleasantly. I turned my face into the crook of his neck and opened my mouth so I could take in more of his scent.

"I wouldn't mind if you carried me like this all night long," I said into his skin.

"That could be easily accomplishable but terribly impractical. How are you feeling?" he inquired solicitously. "Tired?" A seductive smile. "Sated?"

"Hmm...," I falsely mused, "I may still have a personal emptiness in need of proper filling."

His teeth flashed and he gave a sharp laugh.

"I know, I know, you need the mighty scepter of my manhood...but I haven't changed my mind, despite of what happened in the last half an hour." Reflecting, he paused before adding, "Which reminds me... I believe I've encountered among your writings something about an entirely clothed... _session_," he said with a grin.

Oh, yes, the infamous manuscript of my innermost secret thoughts and desires.

"You have? Possibly. I can't remember. When will I get that notebook back?"

"Only after I'll have learned it by heart..."

"In that case, I'm sorry to announce you that tonight _session_ won't count in the fulfilling fantasies department."

"Suddenly, you _do_ remember... May I ask why?" His voice once again was a mere whisper, accompanied by a playful smile. "The noises you've just made sounded pretty fulfilled to me - I suppose advising you to be shy about vocalizing would be pointless. And I am obviously still dressed."

"There were unmet conditions."

"Like?" he prompted.

"You did not fuck me through your open fly."

A pause.

"Ah," he considered, "This is another matter, indeed. My mistake." The words were rich with amusement but there was a distinct edge to his voice and I knew he had taken my blow in full.

"The only dispensation would be the unbuckling of the belt. I don't know, there's something about the sound that the belt makes when it slides through the belt loops...that leathery swishing sound gives me chills. The good kind."

"What if I wore a cummerbund, as I am right now?" His voice had dropped to a rough whisper.

"Something could be arranged..."

We had reached our bedroom and he put me down. My thighs were still trembling from the strenuous position maintained earlier, my body still wrapped in a sensuous afterglow.

He didn't comment on my last remark, he didn't bite my bait so I tried something different.

"I know why you staged tonight..."

"_Session_," he quickly completed, sagacious as an old snake.

"...in the hallway."

"I'm listening," he replied serenely, in patient tranquility.

"Because you did not trust yourself to bring it to the bedroom."

"And here I thought it was impulsive lust! We are in the bedroom now, Isabella. Do I seem intimidated?" His voice, even controlled, sounded a bit too low, slightly altered. He had parried my attack well but I knew I wasn't too far off the mark.

"...you wanted to be uncomfortable, precarious..."

"You don't think I'm able to perform standing, love?" A trace of menace.

"I have my doubts." I answered flippantly.

"And I suppose you could let yourself convinced to the contrary?" Amusement again.

"I'm open...to dialogue," I hesitantly admitted.

"And not only to that, I imagine. Nice try, Isabella, but it won't do."

Another dead end. I just couldn't win.

Maybe I should give up and prepare for bed.

I tried to undress myself, fumbling blindly, fiddling to undo the zipper at the back of the gown. There were of course, easier ways to remove it. He observed my efforts for a while, in attentive scrutiny, which I knew perfectly well that it was purely deliberate. But his keen attention now gratified and excited me, failing to make me self-conscious. It was a bit late to affect a timid appearance, anyway.

"Let me help you with that," he finally offered in a gallantry as authentic as my own display of clumsiness.

"Oh, the chevalier has returned..." I observed, making an admirable effort to keep my tone serious.

"Don't be impertinent to the professor!"

He stepped closer and reached around, his movements lithe and efficient but strangely impersonal. I heard the zipper rasping quietly. I slipped the bodice off my shoulders, revealing my breasts to his gaze. His countenance was still of perfunctory propriety. This charade proved easy for him, or he was doing a very credible imitation. I pushed the dress lower and it slid to the floor with a soft rustle that resembled a resigned sigh. Or was it my own?

All that had remained on was the garter belt, which I slowly pulled over my hips myself, wearing a noble little smile that said I was, in my generosity, sparing him another temptation.

If he was impressed, that didn't come across his demeanor. His mood was so composed, I began to wonder if he wanted me at all. His gaze drifted leisurely over my breasts then further down one more time before he grumbled:

"Womanly wiles and indefensible tactics, indeed." Then, louder, "Let's get you into bed."

I took a step towards the bed then stopped abruptly, as if stricken with a sudden idea.

"Are you sure you can handle my sleeping naked?" I asked him with mischievous intent.

He seemed to be musing for a second there, then unexpectedly, he unfastened the cummerbund that flawlessly encased his waist and discarded it. He expertly removed the cufflinks next, and started to pull out his shirt from his trousers, all the while examining me, slow and easy, as I stood, fully nude and a trifle defying, exposed to him. Men are visual; I enjoyed teasing him like that. It was only fair after what he had just done to me.

When he began to unbutton his shirt down the front, my mouth went dry; he was making something of a production out of removing his shirt, but I didn't get the feeling he was performing for my direct benefit. The shirt slid off his broad, confident shoulders and I was facing now the splendor of his naked chest.

He was muscular in a taut, unobtrusive way, which was more masculine than the hard, flamboyant, narcissistic display of a bodybuilder. I wanted to bury my face against his bare chest and just enjoy the feel of him, the scent of him, after too long away. I tried to tear my eyes from him but my enchanted state must have been quite apparent, because he asked with a half-smile, half-smirk.

"Like what you see?"

I loved that bit of the peacock in him, it was part of his appeal.

"Sure of yourself, are you..."

"I thought you enjoyed my..._'cockiness'_."

I knew that pushing him was the wrong kind of strategy. The man needs to be the pursuer. But playing hard to get was not only difficult to stage, at my current level of need, it was plainly impossible. I simply had this urge to taunt his masculinity, to push his resolve, to test his dominance.

So I played some more. I inhaled and fructified the opening.

"Speaking of which... At some point, you need to back up all this raw, unabashed self-confidence with some proof, you know..."

"Self-confidence cannot be faked," he countered quickly.

"But is it self-confidence or incredible vanity?"

"I'm starting to feel a little disrespected by your relentless provocation, Isabella," he interrupted my maladroit analysis in an indulgent tone. "You're restless and rebellious again."

"That's because I'm cock-starved!"

"Your attempts are indeed quite inventive. Still, you are too obvious in your quest. Your ingenuity is much appreciated but far from efficient." He smiled with familiar cool arrogance, daring me to meet his level of self-assurance. "But I do find your efforts entertaining even though I would prefer a more subtle approach."

"You are exasperating!"

"And you are being punished. Obviously not severely enough, since you so unwisely keep challenging me."

"What can I say?! Sometimes the devil just takes over. Perhaps I'm in the particular mood where I welcome the wrath of the almighty conqueror. Perhaps I need him to overwhelm my defenses and crush my resilience and his will and strength to prevail over my all too proud spirit..." I said in my slowest, most wicked drawl.

He offered me an uplifted corner of his mouth and I suspected he was rather pleased that I was not backing down. His eyes were glowing as he neared me, saying gently: "Here, put this on."

He was presenting his shirt as a sleeping garment. The man, cruel in his acuity, preyed on my every weakness.

I clumsily lifted my arms, like I were I child, letting him dress me with his shirt, which was still warm from his body. It was a sweet gesture, I liked it.

"That's cute."

"I wasn't exactly aiming for cute here."

He brought the shirt over my arms and shoulders and down the front, his nimble fingers making quick work with every button to the last.

That brought us very close together, making it impossible for me to abstain from touching him. I just seized the opportunity, I reacted, impulsively. First, I encircled his neck with my arms then I pushed my hands into the strands of his crazy hair, capturing him tightly.

"What were you aiming for, then?"

"I seem to have become incapable of keeping you in line, completely incompetent at standing up to your brattiness. Tell me, Isabella, do you think I've lost my touch? Need I to discover new ways to handle you?"

In spite of his words, he made no move to back away.

"Isn't it that your never-ending job as a man?! But if you're confronted with situations beyond your experience level, I could always help out, you know?! I could give you...useful, insightful, suggestions... From the other side of the fence."

He intervened promptly.

"I'm sure you could but I don't need to be coached."

I let my palms trail over his face, then down to his marvelous chest. To my delight, he still didn't withdraw and I felt a surge of triumph as he let his eyes close, savoring my touch. My palms settled nervously, obediently on the width of his pectorals but my gaze wandered down between us to the hardness between his legs.

I wanted to scrape my nails across his torso then down, down, down... I wanted to unzip him and sneak my hand inside his trousers to grab a handful of cock and balls. I wanted to nestle his testicles, heavy like a pair ripe fruit, into my palm, to spoil them in my frenzy to explore, to taste, to inhale their carnal perfume.

An impulse so strong, so painfully delicious, it made my head spin. A deep quiver of lust shot through me as I bit my bottom lip sharply enough to taste blood. Only thus, I managed to resist the temptation.

I searched for something stupid and diverting to say instead.

"May I recommend you take some vitamins?"

"You will find soon enough that my stamina is quite vigorous. I'll prove that to you in ways you can't even imagine, love."

The guttural promise, his heavy tone rewarded me to an extent and made me fidget.

"A man of words and not of deeds..."

"Do not mistake a gentleman's behavior for a wimp's." He came closer, his arm slipping around my waist, pulling me against him. His voice had a new, huskier edge. "Be careful, Isabella, it is often said that men cannot take criticism and if you continue in this key, I might be tempted to put your tongue to better use."

"Oh, yes - the fragile male ego and so forth. But I'm afraid I haven't been given much to praise..."

"Dissatisfied so quickly?"

I tasted his breath in my mouth and drew it deep, deep into my lungs.

"No..." I exhaled onto his lips, a ghost of a moan barely there, "...never dissatisfied. Just famished. And asking for more..."

In response, he surprised me by kissing me. His hand wound itself into my hair, forcing my head to incline, tilting my mouth to the angle he desired, easing me forward, close, kissing me roughly, tongue in my mouth. Not gentle, not sweet, not careful but demanding. Taking my mouth for his pleasure. Like a man.

I arched delighted against his body as I felt the steel-hard contour of his thigh inserting itself, pressing hard between mine. The movement rasped my hard nipples against the pleated shirt. I wound my arms tighter around him, lifting my leg to circle his. A new sense of triumph emerged, but it was quickly muted in a fresh wave of desire.

His long thigh, pressed harder against the swollen flesh of my pussy, the strong muscles clenching against my clit, spiking the pleasure of the contact. Sartorius at its finest. Heat was pouring off his thigh through the fabric of his pants and my sex grew wetter, hotter. I was melting against his leg. I hoped his tuxedo trousers would wear the stain well.

His hand slid down to the back of my thigh, behind my knee, pulling my leg higher up on his and the kisses grew more languishing. The implications of his deteriorating control had my blood singing in exhilaration. I had almost convinced myself that the game was finally forgotten, when he broke the kiss to suggest, much to my dismay:

"Maybe a second helping from the first dish is in order, if you're still so hungry."

Fallacious again. He wasn't losing control, just misleading me, conning me into thinking he was. He was doing it on purpose, luring me, then making me wait, making me wait, wait, wait, until I was ready to scream, ready to beg, ready to whatever. I hated that he did that and yet, I couldn't get enough of it. Still, I was somewhat irritated by his unrelenting resistance and my own naïveté; a trifle disillusioned.

"You're offering me bread crumbs again... That proffer, sir, is respectfully rejected!" I retorted, unsuccessfully hiding my annoyance.

Almost indiscernibly, his mouth twisted at the challenge, eyes sparkling with devilish intent. He pulled me tighter into himself and grinned openly, evilly before bending towards my ear.

"You're hardly in the position to refuse anything, love..." he sneered, his voice low and scratchy. "If repletion were what I wanted for you, that would be easy enough. I would suffer no obstruction. You know I love it when you dare tease me. It turns me on massively. But you need to be careful and know what you're doing; aroused past my point of self-control, I come on like a freight train. Now please, desist this mutiny of no use and get into bed, before I am forced to become really cross with you."

Sometimes there was no telling when he was kidding.

He tore his body from mine, helped me into bed and covered me with the comforter.

"There is that!"

Creaking slightly under his weight, the bedsprings gave as he sat beside me.

"You're being very cruel, indeed..."

"Isabella, I am acutely sensitive to your needs and do my damndest to satisfy them. Partly because I can, but probably even more so because I want to give you everything I've got. You're going to receive ample confirmation of that, let me assure you. You'll be..._full filled_."

I tried to sit up again but he gently pushed me back into the pillows.

"Everything?"

"Yes, everything."

"If I asked for the moon?"

"Even the golden fleece, if I had to. But for now, I insist you get some sleep. The night is a good advisor. Who knows, maybe by surrendering instead of rebelling, you will find unexpected completion of your needs and wants."

The white bed sheets were crisp and smelled wonderfully. I sunk my face against the soft, silken pillow.

"I am so happy to be home with you," I barely managed to add.

"As am I," was his gentle reply.

"Don't take too long..." I mumbled. "Time is of the essence."

I heard him laugh as I drifted off, without any real volition. My last conscious thought was how wonderful it was to find comfort in the familiar. And that I needed to thank him for not mentioning Jake to his family.

* * *

It was not yet dawn when I woke, my sleep disrupted by a sudden, inexplicable inquietude. I reached over to his side of the bed and my hand met only an empty pillow instead of him. He was not in bed, the mattress beside me was cold, which meant he hadn't been there recently. That could not be good.

As I passed room after room, my heart went faster and faster until it stilled; I knew where he'd be. In his chambers. In his cave.

In his office.

The door was ajar. I entered soundlessly and stopped shy, by the door. My heart started to slow.

His chair was turned to face the window, putting him in profile. He sat still, staring at the ceiling, shrouded in the mystery of his thoughts. Adonis, reclining.

All that he wore was his silk pajama bottoms and his bare skin gleamed palely in the amber light of the desk lamp, one long, strong hand extended out on the arm of the chair like a lion's paw. Entwined in his fingers, a thick cigar, which I knew he would not lit. On the desk, a glass of scotch. Glenfiddich, oddly, on the rocks.

I stood unmoving, silent, in wait, studying his profile in the dimness. I had always felt an odd compulsion to observe him clandestinely, I did not know why, but that didn't keep me from doing it. His stillness was strangely compelling, drawing me to him like an invisible pull. There was a sense of latent energy, of dormant force about his posture that awakened in me all sorts of difficult hungers.

My fingers yearned to trace his angular, masculine features, the strong and defined jaw line, to feel the texture of bone and skin, much like one might run a hand over a fine statue. I wanted to soothe his warrior brow and refit him for his fights. As strong as they may be, men don't have inexhaustible resources. Even leading, strong men have vulnerabilities and need to be cared for by their women.

"_Don't stir up the sleeping dragon...,"_ a little wise voice said in warning.

"Had enough sleep?" A deep, gruff voice acknowledged me.

He was no longer playful and seductive, he sounded displeased, the teasing charm gone. Earlier in the night, it had seemed to me that his armor was getting thinner. I had thought that his control was flagging, that his resolve was slipping. Looking at him now, I was no longer as certain.

Perhaps we had begun to play the game too hard.

"I had some, unlike you. What kept you awake?"

He did not answer.

This new, unexpected element of conflict thrilled me. Something moved low and telluric inside me, a shadowed, murky blaze. My own desire was waking in a completely new way. I briefly fantasized about walking over to him, throwing one leg over his lap and biting down hard, in revenge and exasperation, at his mouth's perfect fullness. But that only left me shaking and lustful.

"You seem upset." I observed quietly.

"No, I'm not."

So few, curt words. He _was_ upset. I knew it.

"Why aren't you sleeping then?"

"I was thirsty," he answered dryly.

"So I see. But why the sitting alone in semidarkness?"

"I was thinking about something unpleasant," he responded in a distant tone.

"What about?"

"About the rotten nights I've had in here without you, Bella."

His voice was so terribly quiet and far away. It was that first night at the hotel all over again.

"This shouldn't be a night for such somber considerations. I'm here now..." I said, my voice faint and breathy. "Let's redeem all that wasted time."

He turned his head to look at me, so intensely that his hypnotic, brilliant gaze felt almost like a physical touch. Suddenly, his voice got a terrible calm intensity to it and he sentenced adamantly:

"You won't run away from me again."

This emotional roller coaster couldn't go on any longer and I knew that what was about to follow would be crucial. Anger does not damage the relationship as long as there is an unselfish love at its core; however, he needed to express his, once and for all, to dispel it and end with, instead of leaving it to simmer. This was what made the moment so intimidating and meaningful. Great as well as scary.

My marrow was weakening but I wasn't afraid. My legs were quivering but I wasn't scared. Instead of more painful anticipation, of more inner turmoil, I suddenly felt a quiet acceptance, a resigned serenity; come whatever might, baptism by water, by fire or by ordeal, I was ready. I was strangely calm and ready to accept it all. He needed it in order to end the circle of anger.

"You're still mad at me," I stated evenly.

Frustrating silence again.

"Edward, if this is still a game, you're pushing things too far!"

"Am I?"

With those words, he stood swiftly from the chair and walked right up to me, in a very definitive manner. In that dim light, he looked like a smoldering demon. With every step, I could see him with a new clarity: tall, dark and in a weird, dangerous mood. He loomed over me, wickedly intimidating. Very suggestive. Very intoxicating. I felt dizzy under his gaze. I swallowed hard.

"How about now? Hmm? Are still the..._things_ too far?"

He took another step in my space, making me back up against the wall. Using the tip of the cigar, he started to pinpoint lazily the buttons of my shirt, making small circles around each of them.

"How about now? Are _things_ any better?"

He must have had more than just a drink.

"Please explain to me, Edward, I need to understand. I deserve to know. Why are doing this? Why are you _really_ doing this?"

He pushed me further into the wall, the scent of Glenfiddich and musk and anger pouring from him like a strange, heady perfume. I sensed the tide of primal manhood coursing through his veins. Standing in his manly, imposing presence with my head tilted back to see his eyes, I felt it, I smelled it. It drove me wild. Touching him was all I thought about. I hoped he'd let me at same point.

"In search for knowledge are we, little cat?"

"Pretending your anger does not exist is a mistake... constantly corking it up like that, stuffing it away inside you..."

"You know me inside out, don't you?! Every bone and sinew, every itsy-bitsy little thing that goes through my narrow, boyish mind..."

"You're damn right I know nothing of what you feel! You don't let me know any of it!" I injected with some acrimony, facing him squarely.

For a few long heartbeats, he watched me gravely, with smoldering eyes, his lips just a whisper away.

"Very well, then. You're right. I am still so fucking angry with you. I believe that, among your duties, firstly, you must honor your husband by giving him exclusivity." His voice had dropped to a dark, hoarse murmur and he put both his hands on the wall, on each side of my head, bringing closer the rich, taut curves of his arms and chest. His shoulder glistened in that poor light, as if damp with sweat, making me want to lick the skin there.

His lips turned pale when he spoke next.

"You failed, Isabella. You brought a ghost into our bed."

"You know that's not true, Edward... You said you believed me," I defended weakly but my voice didn't crack.

"I'm jealous," he muttered, in the same stifled tone. "I won't deny that side of my nature. I am very territorial about you and now, after all that has happened, I have this compulsive desire to become a bit much for you, to take you, my woman, in every possible way, to use you thoroughly, vigorously, strenuously so you won't ever again forget that I'm the only one who can have you. Ever."

Old, stubborn resentments still flammable as gasoline danced and flickered in his eyes, like distant bonfires.

"It is an urge I have been trying very hard to contain," he continued acerbically, between clenched teeth, with a cold look in his eyes that was downright spooky. His next query was more a wild, low hiss.

"So, don't you think it's unwise to tempt me when I'm like this, Isabella?"

I was not certain whether it was the cruel playfulness in the smile following his question or the real heat in his warning that made me shiver. I hesitated, afraid of getting the answer wrong, because then he would use it against me, with a derisive, snarky little turn of phrase.

"I think I'm entitled to all of you, either good or bad."

"Is that so?!" he inquired darkly.

He kept flashing out his resentments, I kept expressing my availability. It was like a dialogue of the deaf.

"Yes, it is. I'm in for it all: your hard, swagger thighs, your soft, clever lips, your strength, your temper, your cock, your brain. Now, please, stop this, you're tormenting me for real, Edward..."

"Oh, the raw power of a woman's 'please'... So strong and indefensible..." he declaimed, theatrically, to an invisible audience. "It will affect a man, deeply, often to the point of granting her request. 'Please' implies an acceptance of the reply, whether that is 'yes' or 'no', isn't it? With that comes an unvoiced element of submission. How heartless would I have to be to say 'no' to your heartfelt request, to your legitimate need?"

I shrunk under his new assault and said again 'please', although I didn't know what I was asking for any more.

He leaned more into me and his husky laugh fanned over my face.

"That is something I heard quite often from you tonight."

Suddenly fearless, I stood on tiptoe and kissed the corner of his mouth with gentle but poorly concealed fervor. I needn't have worried about touching him, because he then kissed me back. Hard, really hard, so hard I hoped it would bruise. He disengaged from the kiss as sharply as he had begun, leaving my mouth slack, lips sensitized, tender, a little swollen. I made a petulant sound of protest and he let out a dry chuckle.

"I might," he said in a non-committal fashion, "...under certain circumstances, allow fulfillment of your desire." My heart skipped a beat, giddy on new possibilities. "As a sign of goodwill. But you must make a good effort to convince me." His teeth gleamed. "A better effort."

"_I've been doing nothing but..."_

I could hear a new, wolfish smile in his voice, his tone deceivingly sweet. His eyes shone through the darkness, blackened pupils burning me. "You must be very, very persuasive... Convince me, Isabella!"

Hastily, fervidly, I searched my mind for other, more compelling arguments.

"The effective maintenance of a relationship is determined by, among many other things, the efficient disposal of the potential damage a swallowed, amorphous anger as yours, may impose. Release your anger to avoid the cancerous drain of chronic, unresolved disputes weighing down on us!"

I realized my voice had begun to sound like the strident wail of desperation, so I hurried on.

"The termination of conflict in the act of lovemaking is the glue that binds couples together. When anger is not channeled into something more positive, such as passionate love, homeostasis can only be maintained by dissociating from the anger or by ceasing to care. The first you seem unwilling to do, at least for now, the latter is a horrible prospect... Forgiveness is essential, Edward... Without it, any given relationship is doomed."

My arguments were spent, my trick bag was empty. My powerless words dissolved into an unsettling, unfriendly silence, a hush that gathered, accumulated, falling around us heavy like a fog. I could hear even the lamp bulb buzzing. I hardly dared breathe.

Finally, he broke the quiet, his voice as flat and dead as dirt.

"Very well sustained, Isabella. But rather ineffective, I'm afraid."

That made me stir in panic. He responded to my insistent motion by forcing against me even harder, using his superior strength to flatten my body against the wall.

"Please, give up to this punishment nonsense, you're making us both frustrated and miserable... Make love to me, Edward! I need you. I need to reconnect with you… Don't you want me?" I futilely, heatedly pleaded.

"Don't I want you..." he drawled, as if musing over the matter.

In response, he moved against me, just so I could feel the burning weight of his arousal, safely concealed beneath his pajama pants. The heavy length of his cock imprinting against my lower abdomen made me whimper, hungrily.

"You know that I so despise to tell untruths. Besides, the answer to that has become self-evident, I expect..."

A little nervous laughter escaped my lips.

"The penis never lies."

"No," he said, snapping out the single word and the ravenous expression in his eyes sent a shudder through me. "It doesn't."

With that, he put the cigar between his lips, grabbed my shirt and pulled it open roughly, with a fine, flagrant disregard for its integrity. I gasped, my breath caught, my folds swelled. He removed it completely and threw it away, not caring where it landed.

Torn apart shirts - a sartorial affliction common enough in the good, old days.

He took the cigar out of his mouth and clicked his tongue in disapproval while he examined me.

"You got too damn thin," he said in a disgruntled mumble. "I don't like to feel your ribs like this."

My skin tingled, alight with desire under his palm and I felt my breasts swell under his seeking touch, as he cupped one supple weight, lifting it slightly. His thumb grazed the nipple.

The pointed tip of his tongue appeared, between equally red lips. It slowly licked his upper lip then the lower and went back inside his mouth. With his gaze still fixed to my breasts, he took a sudden step backwards, allowing me space to move.

"Lie down on the rug."

I hesitated, even though his tone implied it was not a suggestion.

He neared me again, half of his face cast in shadows and muttered something distinctly unworthy of a gentleman. "I don't mean to be abrupt here, but if you hoped you'd get fucked against a wall, that's not going to happen."

I still didn't move.

His voice was low, sarcastic as he unknowingly turned my own thoughts against me. "Hmm... You're reluctant," he said. "What are you afraid of? Embarrassing yourself?"

"No."

"Of me?"

"No."

He snarled, coming closer and glowered down at me. His lips twisted with an edge of self-mockery as he inquired, "No?! And why is that? I'm being an asshole, a despicable brute..."

"I trust you. And I'm not afraid."

"Go lie down, in that case."

"Make me."

Edward laughed then, a harsh sound filling the room and his teeth flashed, very white, like a predator's. With one step he was against me again; he wrapped my hair around his fist and pinned me with the bulk of his body against the wall. He forced his knee between my legs and used it to spread them. Then slowly, deliberately, he started to grind his hips against my pubic bone, teasing me with his cock, so eager and taut and swollen, hidden by nothing more than his thin pajama. Every time the silk-clad cock passed over my clit, I moaned with delight. My breath got heavier and he smirked, undeterred, knowing that if he kept that rhythm, I wouldn't resist for long.

He stilled, the hand closed in my hair tugged steadily, forcing my chin up while his piercing eyes fed on every expression on my face. His mouth was a grim line but his eyes had an avid glint. He bent his head to speak, a mesmerizing hiss, in my ear.

"I like it when you're like this, so hot and bothered and needy that you need to get insolent. It makes your surrender all the more sweet..." His free hand lowered on my bare ass, pressing my body to his as he ground his hips again. "What if I withheld _this... - _his erection rubbed hard against me - indefinitely, hmm? How about that?"

"_No..."_ I hummed to myself.

He released me and took a step back. He had me and he knew it. His implacable gaze still held mine, his voice quiet, a whisper.

"I'm still waiting."

As I sidestepped him to advance into the middle of the room, he smirked again, self-satisfied and reflected aloud:

"I just wonder, what made you change your mind so abruptly?"

It was a rhetorical, ironic question, one that didn't quite require my opinion.

"A woman's privilege," I answered steadily, with a trace of defiance.

I felt his eyes on me as I sat down on the carpet. Slowly, I lay on my back with my legs bent at the knees. A lingering stage of apprehension made me wonder what he would choose to do next. Uncertain, willing to please, I waited on him, waiting for his next instruction._ "Be still and pay attention," _the little voice said, "_and you will know which path to choose."_

He lithely came near, slowed then stopped. I watched his feet sinking into the carpet as he halted. The rug was thick but felt coarse on my shoulder blades. Well, that was all right. Rug burns don't hurt until after, anyway.

I lay motionless, soft and pliant, absorbing all the nuances of his demeanor, my senses attuned to his movements. He started pacing patiently up and down at my feet, all the time watching me, his eyes entranced, the need in his gaze addictive. There is a pattern to things, behavior and all, and just like that night in Sweden, he began to explain, his voice this time unexpectedly gentle.

"I like seeing you aroused... seeing your anticipation, your little touch of uneasiness about what's going to happen. I feel pride, because I'm the only man who can do what he wants again and again with this witty, sparkling, powerful, beautiful woman."

The sounds flew over me, erasing all worries away, the effect of his chanted, monotone monologue almost hypnotic. I watched his back muscles moving like a living, warm undulation of dune, the loud thud of my heartbeat in my ears almost covering his voice.

"I feel overwhelming power, because I can make you moan and whimper and scream and beg and cry. Because I can torment you with a touch of my hand or give you satisfaction with the same... Because I can bring you to pure feeling by making you lose all control over yourself."

His words left traces on my skin, invisible, random patterns like a caress, each of them designed to inflame and unlock me a little further. I whimpered. He stopped.

"Is the word-craft of my lecture arousing you, Bella?"

I nodded.

"Let me hear you."

"Yes..."

"You're burning for things I cannot give?"

His soft tone was knowing, so knowing it was almost scary.

"Yes."

"I can smell you," he remarked conversationally, and his penis twitched in admission under his pajama pants. His erection had subsided; his cock hung now at half-mast, a less threatening and just as full of erotic promise state I secretly, perversely enjoyed. Whenever I had the chance, I watched it in a spellbound trance, as it would swing lazily, in a sort of wordless undertaking, bouncing nonchalant from thigh to thigh with Edward's each advancing step. I imagined it in my mouth, pulsing so much I wouldn't be able to keep up, the semen spilling from my lips and down to the full testicles dangling below.

Anticipation is nine tenths of the pleasure. I shivered flashing those mental images. And then again at his next words.

"I can see you, too... Closed shyly, glistening like a velvety split peach, so juicy, ripened and fragrant."

A few heartbeats of silence then he ran a hand through his hair and resumed his pacing. Back in the lecturing mode, his voice retook the monotonous intonation.

"In moments like this, I am grateful because you gave yourself to me. I feel that you belong to me fully and this is a gift I don't take lightly. This mix of feelings can be indeed, very arousing for a man."

With this conclusion, he stopped at my feet again, casting a long, heavy shadow across my body.

"Spread your legs, baby."

His request sounded natural, uttered without supplication or threat, yet it was full of authority.

I complied, forcing myself to relax, with my thighs aslant. I had never felt this naked, this exposed but my posture was far from lost on him. I was at my weakest point and yet, by the expression on his face, I must have never been so powerful. He looked so intense, so serious, as if it were his inescapable, predestined duty to conduct that inspection. I felt the need to close my eyes.

I could feel his stare, burning into my undefended sex as he gazed between my thighs. He could see my pussy, empty, begging, the juices oozing into the rug. I just kept my eyes closed, waiting and heard him strangely murmuring, under his breath: "One must adore before one commands, ravages, despoils, takes... one must completely adore..." I drew in a sharp breath when I felt him kneeling between my thighs.

He let his hand travel up and down the inside of my thigh, lingering where the skin was tender and thin, softest, most receptive, pulling my thighs apart, wider. Under his avaricious stare, my clit was growing heavy and hot. I imagined how he would see it, poking out between the lips, flushed scarlet, brazen in its need.

"You should see how you look from here...beautiful beyond any description as you're offering yourself in the throes of desire. An image of inconceivable perfection." His hand moved over my sex, just once, a bold, masculine caress that scorched my flesh. "Open and dripping... Strung up. You're making me think of a tensely coiled spring. The stronger the spring, the more exceptional I have to be in order to get it to release. So irresistible..."

My legs started to shake almost imperceptibly with impotent need that made every nerve quiver; my voice scraped my throat, hoarse with wanting.

"Do things to me, Edward..."

The sound of my breath almost covered the silkiness of Edward's murmured reply.

"Oh, I have every intention of it…"

He stroked me again with the flat of his palm, the contact almost hard and I gasped.

"What a marvelous humidor..."

The implications of his words sent deep ripples down my spine. He ran the cigar along my pussy, watching me with hooded eyes. He held the tip against my clit, smiling as I squirmed against it. It felt very stiff and hard, almost abrasive.

"It feels alien against your skin, isn't it? It takes your warmth away... It takes your breath away..."

He began to explore every crevasse, charting out peaks and valleys with his naughty utensil, speaking all the time, asking wicked questions, his voice silk, smooth baritone silk.

"Do you think I could make you come with this thick, scented substitute for my cock?"

Being the cerebral, versatile lover he was, I had little doubt but I didn't answer.

"I could have it thoroughly soaked with your essence and then, when I'd smoke it later, I would have you all over my fingers and tongue. Inside my lungs... The smoke might even curl up in the air into a volatile impression of your hip."

Afraid to shake my head in open refusal, I caught his gaze, trying to reveal my unwillingness, if not disappointment, at the sudden offer. The cigar had grown warm, sucking up the heat and cream of my skin.

Unexpectedly, he removed it, sniffed its musky bouquet then set it aside.

"Some other time, perhaps," he whispered pensively. Had he distinguished in the slight intake of breath my anxiousness?

"What was it that you wanted from me, again?" he asked with an expectant, interested tone as if we were having just another conversation.

My previous composure was growing thin. I felt fragile and tensed with frustration, oppressed by that incessant longing, by his relentless games.

"You already know what I want..." I whispered wearily.

Suddenly, he hovered over me on his hands and knees. His sly expression had disappeared, a look of intense concentration taking its place. His eyes glinted as he provoked once more, his lips so close I could feel their heat on my cheek.

"Indulge me."

He did not touch me but his proximity was dizzyingly. I felt a fresh wave of juicy audaciousness. I spoke again, after a shaky breath.

"Your waist scissored by my thighs, our limbs braided together..."

He propped on one elbow and let his other hand travel randomly on my body: gliding down my cheek, testing the pulse in my throat, tracing the line of my jaw, the tender hollow above my collarbones. His fingers were snaking over my breasts when he asked slowly, deliberately:

"Don't censor yourself. What else?"

"I want to feel you...to touch you for a long time, to trace arcs and spirals and paths on your balls... and on your chest, and on your back..."

He bent his head and his tongue swiped over my nipple once. A surge of sensations rippled through my spine. Quick little licks over the other tip made me arch my back. More. I wanted more. A throttled groan rasped in his chest as he began to suck. Pleasure lanced straight to my sex, sending my legs numb. Too quickly, he pulled away; the flare receded.

"No, Isabella, these are just means to an end. What do you _really_ want?" A smile tickled the corners of his lips but his eyes were blazing.

My thoughts were moving so fast, like flickering cinematic shadows, thoughts made into images, images made into words.

"I want to live darkly and richly and safely in my femininity under your command. I want to learn your desires, watch you constructing our life, doing your manly work. I want you on top of me...in every way that there is. You, my pivot, always on top. I want to feel the sweet pain of being possessed by you, for your pleasure, at your will, at your time..."

I hated the sound of my own voice, begging him for what I needed, but I knew that was the only way I would obtain anything from him tonight. And I needed to be taken, hard. His hand moved down, lazier, his fingertips grazing my hipbone.

"_Men are logical and sexual. Be direct... Be feminine."_

"But most of all, I want your cock." I exhaled. "I need it."

His palm sought out my sex, stretched between splayed thighs and the flames blazed up again.

"How badly do you want it?"

He was tracing circles through the damp relief. I grew wetter, wettest under his probing fingers. My blood ran too hot, filling, scalding my veins. I was burning wet, slippery smoldering, water and fire enhancing each other. I parted my thighs further, allowing him better access, my arousal passing the point where I could pretend to restrain.

"Very badly." A heated, breathless admission.

"But you'll leave it to me, whether I will enact your desires, won't you?"

A phantom voice passed through my mind, a litany, a single word revolving around. _"Surrender, surrender, surrender..."_

"Yes." The word burned my throat.

"Because this is my game. My way, Bella."

A faint sound of despairing capitulation. Desire distilling into surrender.

"Yes."

"And you'll have it, love. At _my_ time. At _my_ bidding."

More sterile, distant promises. A confident finger running through my sensitized slit brought me sweet little solace.

"Like this, baby, don't you?!" he asked softly, and moved his hand again, daringly exploring my folds, his fingers spreading me, opening me.

"Mmm..."

A skilled intrusion of his luscious middle finger stilled my thoughts. The shiver of my legs became a fine tremor that took over my entire body.

"But I don't know which you like best… That?"

His finger withdrew abruptly, disconcerting, leaving me a sensation of empty loneliness as its touch faded from my heated depths. With a smile, he wiped slowly, demonstratively the wetness off his finger across his smooth, chiseled chest then returned his hand between my legs, beginning to massage sweetly the flesh surrounding my clit as if he wanted nothing. "Or this?"

As the pulse in my sex exploded with urgency, I started to arch and undulate beneath him, imploring, using a breathy tone I hadn't even known I possessed. When he finally did touch it, I shuddered and cried.

"Now, now. Good girls keep still and quiet while their wet, swollen clits are being rubbed and pulled." When he pinched it, I was on the verge of coming. I gave him my response, all eyes and breath, relishing the hunger he'd allowed to cross his face. His breath was so hot that his words in my ear felt like a verbal penetration.

"Shh, baby... Just making sure you really know how painful arousal can be..."

"Please, take me... I am ready..."

He cupped my sex and my swollen, turgid labia filled his palm.

"I'm taking you...in my hand, love," he murmured and his voice got huskier with every word, "...at your melted, molten core and your readiness is exquisitely obvious to me... Hmm, to have you in the palm of my hand...that is not just a poetic metaphor. There is a mouth with full, open lips, quite capable of drawing within, moistly and heatedly absorbing into itself the object of its desire. Ready you are, Isabella, all hot and soaking..."

His words made me melt in a white-hot inferno of desire, out of my senses, so far out of control psychologically that I couldn't even imagine being in control. I reached up, grabbed his shoulders, pulled him down to me and half-bit, half-kissed his cruel, clever, sculpted lips; he had never tasted better.

"Please, more..."

With each of his strokes, I became more frantic. All my reactions to him were charged. Every muscle in my body ached, I needed him so badly! I was shaking like a leaf, my body screaming to be taken completely, a reckless willingness and primal desire to be owned by him, totally his, totally held by his power. The agonizing sensations, the heat, the throbbing increased to the point where I could stand no more and tore my lips away from his, to moan, to beg.

"Please, let me touch you... I miss you… I've been waiting for so long…" I murmured imploringly into the kisses.

I writhed and clung to him, and he was hard and unrelenting as stone in my arms as I squeezed his shoulders. I kept whimpering incoherently, helpless, begging for his cock, with every move and sound pleading for him to touch me, to dominate me, to use me.

"Please, Edward, give it to me..."

"Which one is going to be, baby?" he asked hoarsely. "Give or take?"

I would have laughed if I hadn't been so insanely aroused. I was suddenly furious at him, at his arrogance, at his carelessness, and most of all at the fact that he knew me far too well. I didn't know the difference between lust and anger anymore.

"Are we playing semantics?!" I asked incredulously in half-mad desperation. "Give is take and take is give. Who the hell cares which is it, just give me more and take me more! Take me hard and mercilessly so you can purge your anger! Give me your cock so I can oil it and feel it slide inside me... Just fuck me, Edward. Please!"

His eyes turned mad with lust. I barely registered his deep-throated snort.

"Oh, you're so mean when you want to..."

With a swift, unexpected movement, he pushed his pajama bottoms down to mid - thigh. Released from its delicate confinement, his penis sprang forth, so large, so dark, arching hungrily, as rigid and unyielding as a forged weapon. A greedy sob escaped me. I wanted to grab it and pull at it like tugging on a rope, dragging him inside my cunt.

In a blur of a motion, before I could reach out to touch him, he mounted me, drawing my thighs wider apart and his full weight splayed me beneath him.

"You have earned your desire. A man can only take so much!"

With that, he dexterously guided himself and entered roughly without further ceremony, piercing the folds, splitting me exquisitely, filling me like a man should, and in a way that a cigar could never match.

I heard myself moan and all my thoughts fractured into falling shards. I had forgotten or maybe I hadn't, the abrupt stretching, the surge I always felt when his cock first entered me, the sensation of being overfilled. Another deep, fast stab and I sucked up a scream. A rush of heated breath against my ear:

"I am inside you now. Was this what you wanted?" he asked, darkly.

I managed only an inarticulate sound. I was too breathless to speak.

"I must insist on an answer..." The request sounded like it was coming through clenched teeth, urgency taut in his voice.

Locking my legs around him, I strained upward, craving more, gripping his shoulders tighter. I met his eyes; he looked serious, rapt, devoid of vanity and pretension, all artifice gone.

"Yes, husband."

His voice had changed. Gone lower. Rougher. "Take it all then," he groaned and gave me more, his hips pistoning into me fiercely. The savagery was inevitable after our long wait. I'd been longing to be used by him, as the object of his lust and I reveled in that forceful intensity. My flesh swelled, stretching, accepting, enfolding his burning length, the friction more delicious than the best memory I had. I was so aroused, so ready for him that I welcome the tender-ferocious assault.

"All of me." His voice was a low, slow growl, his breath harsh, coming in counterpoint to the fierce, furious thrusts of his cock. "You like that, don't you? Take me deeper... This is an exquisite treat for a man, to just let it rip," he grunted in my ear.

Nails scraped his back; sobbing noises of pleasure, of need denied for too long, echoed in the room. He drove into me hard, taking me with a rough possessiveness, or perhaps it was just anger - my latest acquaintance. It was a greedy, crude fuck and mercy was nowhere in sight.

"_Fuck, you've tightened!"_

His mouth at my ear, whispering promises of incoming torture, everything he'd learned I liked, everything he'd learned I needed..._ "__I'm going to make you see stars...__ I'll make you come so hard you'll think you've died."_ He rammed into me over and over, plunging faster and harder and it didn't take long until deep inside, my muscles started to quiver. Orgasm, quick and sudden as death, broke over me, stiffening and immobilizing my limbs then bursting through and galvanizing my body into shuddering spasms.

He slowed down to feel it._ "Squeeze me hard, baby, squeeze me into oblivion...,"_ he murmured, rubbing his lips over mine, inhaling my cry.

As awareness began to return, I could hear him, still whispering, like someone drunk with love, a muffled mixture of curses and soft words. Keeping himself still, still impaling me on that part of him that could prove and explain things the rest of him could not, he was waiting for my return, giving me time to recover, waiting for the last tremor to pass.

"_So tight, so hot...__"_ He was breathing words, face buried in my hair, inhaling, praising my beauty in quiet tones. I regained enough consciousness to notice the fine trembling of his body, straining for control, against me, inside me, a sign of his inhuman effort to remain motionless.

The pulsations of my flesh tempered and he seemed to know this, taking it as a cue to resume his manly labor. He restarted with slow rotations, caressing my wet, aching inner walls with infinite slowness, then went on with long, slow, liquid thrusts, moving inside me as if underwater, as if he knew my waters better than I.

He groaned low in his throat and his pace quickened. My breath matched his rhythm, the throaty sounds of pleasure dropped to short, sharp whimpers, my only leverage against the heavy pumping. He was fucking me now with a punishing, avenging thoroughness, steadily guiding me to another climax.

Pleasure, pleasure, more pleasure with each deep, vigorous thrust. A stripe of light on his severe cheekbone. Our bodies grinding lava, sweat and musk against each other, like ancient, elemental millstones. A doomed attempt to reunite the primary androgynous. Each thrust filled me, each withdrawal left me starving.

"_All mine. Until the day I die."_

My second orgasm built quickly, much too quickly. Stronger this time. Reduced to just a hot river of sensations, my entire body, inside and out, suspended itself, taut as a bow strung too tensely, every nerve frozen in anticipation of the next fluid, piercing lunge.

I hovered on the edge, sucking breath, so good, so extreme but I couldn't stop or pull away. I felt its waves coming, inexorable like a tsunami, pulling me in, pulling me down, pulling me under. I tried to warn him, but he already knew. He already knew, and when it hit me and I almost blacked out, he laughed with savage pride and satisfaction.

But then he was the one coming, while I was still squeezing him, urging him, as I had been designed to. The slams slowed, the rhythm broke and he plunged into me over and over, trembling violently as his cock labored to fill me with his seed. Filling me as he had been designed to. He was all liquid, his bones melted, a man of steel liquefying inside, his release appeasing two long months of famine.

Suddenly limp, he felt twice as heavy above me. He pulled out and I felt his semen leaking, then gushing from me, fecund and thick, marking me, making me feel so possessed. I made no move to clean up. I was perfectly content to let it soak into my skin, to let it dry on my thighs. His breath still came in sharp rasps as he collapsed beside me, spent, relaxed, maybe for the first time in months. His sweat smelled, sharply male, intimate. Different. Like sex.

An eerie, contralto female voice, was singing with immense longing in the back of my head: _"Don't you stop being a man..." _

He turned on his back and pulled me on top of him, lifting me from the cold rug. My eyes were heavy-lidded, my breathing as ragged as his. I put my cheek on his chest and the only sounds were the beat of his heart and our erratic gasping. Right then and there, only he and I existed. Neither of us moved. I didn't know how much time went by; I didn't particularly care.

What is afterwards? After the descent into the pits of raw, untamed primordiality? A man and a woman who had seen and wanted all in the other, and in this want, given all of themselves. The knowledge now born, that all of each was known, felt, and hungered for by the other. A knowledge that gave depth beyond measure to their bond.

Drowsily, I lifted my head and looked at him. His eyes were closed, his mouth soft. He had received his small, mortal measure of peace.

"Are we done with the games?" I asked, pressing my lips to his throat.

His arms tightened around me, squeezing with a force just short of actual pain, sensing my skin pebbled from cold.

"Oh, we're a long way from done, baby..." His voice trailed off as a slight, mysterious grin slipped over his features. He stood up with amazing fluency and removed his pajama bottoms with quick, balanced movements.

I watched him in awe; naked, he was even more beautiful, unashamed, perfect as marble carved David. His maleness had an element of untamed independence and roughness, a vigor of animal vitality, exuding strength, sexual prowess, virility. At his feet, I felt wholly powerless, like a speck of dust in his path, swept away, consumed, but also engulfed by the reassurance that his strength - which had only in some measure to do with the power of his flesh - could not be surmounted by outsiders. Not without difficulty. I felt safe and so much more.

Safety, desire, self - abandonment, laughter, tenderness, vulnerability, hunger, love, all those words and many other could be used in conjunction with my submission to him. Because they were a part of it, cause and effect all together.

And yet, as a woman who was truly subjugated, truly owned by her man, I was not weak. It takes a strong woman who possesses a clear understanding of herself to submit to the leadership of a man she trusts. I knew my strengths, indeed. Always thinking of new ways to make him feel loved in return, I strove to become one with his flesh, to be his divine afflatus, to become his creation, the perfume of his poetry. To be as indispensable to him as he was to me.

Loved, supported, cherished, I was in a position to accomplish all my dreams. To be all that I could be, completely secure in my femininity, in my self worth. For that was what his nurturing, masculine dominance desired above all else.

That knowledge, the safety it gave me, allowed all that was within me to soar in freedom. Relinquishing power frees a woman from her fear that her husband will abandon her or lose interest. And there, all responsibility ripped away, unchained by the shackles of panic and worry, I was free, utterly free.

Apparently impervious to my transfixed, insatiable stare, he helped me to my feet as well. Then, for the second time that night, he picked me up in his arms and carried me to our bedroom. We passed dark rooms but he had no need of light. Tired, floppy as a rag doll, I was held like a trophy in his arms. He carried himself straight, as if his bare feet were righteously traversing the Elysian Fields, not merely padding on the wooden floors of our earthly home.

"I think our bed is in need of a cleansing ritual, so be prepared for 'ennoblement' again."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," I said lazily, my heart at ease with satisfied love.

"Wasn't it that how you put it?"

"Oh, am I expected to remember everything now?"

"You truly are recalcitrant, Isabella. I obviously need to make sure I keep you well and properly fucked."

"It was about time you realized that. I was getting enough of all that virile stoicism!"

"Were you convinced by my nocturnal - and oh-so-artful, I might add, mise-en-scène, then?"

"You know, Edward, sometimes I don't believe you at all..."

"You are a very poor liar, my love."

"How much of it was real?" I asked, cautiously.

"You don't want to know that," came the answer, in a controlled, brooding way.

He was right. I didn't.

"You okay?"

"For now, suffice it to say that I've rid myself of the devil riding on my shoulder."

"The beast returned to its cave?"

"Not by itself. You chased it away."

He kissed me and placed me on our bed, wrapping me in a tender, warming embrace. His face was radiant; he looked at me with something fiercer than love, more visceral and pure. I watched him back, trying to picture him as an old man. His small wrinkles turned into creases. His body still lithe, well oiled, sleek. Still unbent. And somehow, becoming more beautiful, more desirable with every line, with every grey hair. Getting better with every passing year, like aging wine, as certain men do.

Sexiness wears thin in time, physical beauty fades... Would he look at me the same way as now? Would he still love me then? He and I both were ephemeral, like a steamy breath dissipating with reluctance on a cold morning. But maybe our love would make us both immortal, despite our less than perfect aging bones.

Hot lips on my temples, on my eyelids were efficient in restraining those unsettling, vagrant wanderings.

"Well, lesson learned?"

"I have _perhaps_ learned more patience but I'd venture to guess that this virtue isn't on top of your list, either," I observed, impertinently, my lips only whispering over his.

"We shouldn't ignore the warning signs and a wise man admits when his time has run out. I'm sensitive enough and responsible enough to consider your feelings and put them before my urges. And sometimes this means giving in to my urges."

"That is just another way of saying that the control you pride yourself so deeply on, has broken, isn't it?!"

"Well, it looks like you're affecting me and I am not entirely displeased with the results," Edward admitted, heaving a sigh.

The sweet irony of the powerful male becoming powerless... What is more delicious than thinking you have undone your man? He had challenged me, vexed me, but also inspired me. I called forth his demons, I summoned them and absorbed them. I exorcised them with my crafty, sweet femininity. I was pleased with myself. From certain angles, there were splendid aspects about being a woman. I laughed lightly, a silly, carefree little laugh, feeling dizzy and lightheaded. From the bark of command to the sweetness of a sigh, his journey was now complete.

"I haven't heard that giggle in a while... What mischievous thought hides behind it?"

"I'm the winner, right? You said 'not tonight', and yet, here we are..."

"It's after midnight, love. All that you have won is a little silvery cup full of stardust."

"Says the man who lost all control of himself due to my charms..."

"Hmm... I guess we both have to lose before we can win. Sleep now, my feisty love."

Every love story is unique and has its own time line, the mystery within succulent. We still had so many layers to unravel in ours, surely more churnings and upheavals of romantic emotional intensity to face ahead of us. But under his wing, secure in my trust and our deep, abiding love for each other, I feared no more.

Still giggling, drunk on the musky scent of his skin, I let myself go in his arms. Under my right palm, his heart was beating vital, steady, comforting. That and his warm flesh made an exceptionally potent narcotic. My thoughts slowly tapered off and then, in the muted hours of darkness, I found my rest at last, on the shore of his body.

* * *

**Final disclaimer: This story is not original; it's a mere compilation of things I loved over time in movies, books, songs or even other fics. **

**Thank you kindly for accompanying me in this journey! Ending it is such a sweet sorrow.**


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